v GOLDEN 


THE   CAKE-WALK. — [See  p.  191.] 


A  GOLDEN  WEDDING 

AND 

OTHER    TALES 


BY  KUTH  McENERY  STUART 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 
HARPER   &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 


BOOKS  BY 
RUTH   McENERY   STUART 

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Copyright,  1893,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  right*  r  turned. 


TO 

MY  FRIEND 

MR.  HENRY  MILLS  ALDEN 


459199 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

A  GOLDEN  WEDDING 3 

LAMENTATIONS  OF  JEREMIAH  JOHNSON.     .    .     45 

UNCLE  MINGO'S  "  SPECULATIOMS  " 69 

THE  WIDDER  JOHNSING 95 

CHEISTMAS  GIFTS 129 

"BLINK" 157 

JESSEKIAH  BROWN'S  COURTSHIP 189 

CRAZY  ABE 217 

QUEEN  ANNE „    .    .  249 

CAMELIA  RICCARDO 263 

THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE  OF  SIMPKINSVILLE.  307 
"OH,  SHOUTIN'S  MIGHTY  SWEET"  ....  359 
LUCINDY  ...  .  363 


ILLUSTEATIONS 


THE  CAKE-WALK Frontispiece. 

"SMOKE    GOT   SOCIABLE    WAYS,   AIN'T 

IT?" Facing  p.  6 

THE  WEDDING,  LONG  AGO "           10 

"L — LOOK  LIKE   i  AIN'T   ONDERSTAN' 

YER  GOOD" "        20 

AFTER  THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING   ...  "34 

"WHO    DELY?" "           40 

"  TO  SEE   HER  STANDIN'   THERE   AGAIN, 

A-SAYIN'  THEM  SAME  WORDS"  .  "      334 


"THE  HOUSEHOLD  WAS  PERPARED  FOR 


'EM,  EVEN  DOWN  TO  TOM"     .     .         "      350 


A  GOLDEN  WEDDING 


A  GOLDEN  WEDDING 

TT  was  Christmas  Eve  in  New  Orleans,  and  the 
-*-  air  was  fragrant  with  the  mingled  perfume  of 
sweet  olive,  violets,  and  roses,  while  lace  curtains, 
floating  in  and  out  of  second -story  windows, 
caught  and  wafted  into  sunny  chambers  a  hint  of 
orange  blossoms  lured  into  untimely  bloom  by  the 
treacherous  wooing  of  a  Southern  December. 

So  Christmas  was  coming  to  two  old  people 
who  sat  to-day  on  the  front  porch  of  a  little  hovel 
back  of  town.  Each  sat  in  front  of  a  door,  and 
they  were  separated  by  a  board  partition  which 
divided  the  house  into  tenements.  A  man  sat  on 
one  side,  a  woman  on  the  other.  Both  were  old, 
both  black,  both  silent  and  contemplative. 

Though  he  sat  back  near  his  door,  in  the  min 
gled  shadow  of  the  low  roof  and  an  orange-tree, 
we  perceive  at  a  glance  that  the  old  man  was 
characterized,  as  to  personal  appearance,  by  con 
spicuous  baldness,  exaggerated  in  effect  by  a  lux 
uriant  growth  of  bushy  white  hair,  which  clung 
about  his  temples,  extending  in  a  low  line  around 
the  back  of  his  head.  A  scant,  grizzly  beard  cov 
ered  his  face  and  chin,  and  he  was  apparently 
entirely  toothless. 


4    ;     /  A    GOLDEN    WEDDING 

He  had  been  engaged  for  several  hours  in  split 
ting  pine  kindling,  which  he  tied  into  little  parcels 
of  uniform  size. 

After  he  had  finished  his  task  to-day,  the  old 
man  sat  for  some  time  quite  still,  with  an  air  of 
alert  listening. 

Presently,  however,  he  rose  suddenly  (though 
his  motions  were  nervous  and  labored),  and  taking 
his  stool  with  him,  reseated  himself  near  the  edge 
of  the  gallery,  exactly  opposite  a  narrow  opening 
made  by  a  broken  plank  in  the  partition. 

Knocking  here  as  at  a  door,  while  he  peered 
curiously  through  the  aperture,  he  called  out, 
"  Oh,  Sister  Garrett  !  is  you  home,  Sis'  Garrett  ?" 

As  "  Sister  Garrett "  rises  to  respond  to  the  call, 
we  perceive  that  she  too  is  very  old  and  bent, 
while  a  certain  fashion  of  contracting  her  brows 
and  looking  intently  before  her  shows  that  her 
dim-looking  eyes  are  failing  in  vision. 

She  also  takes  her  chair  with  her  as  she  ap 
proaches  the  partition  wall,  and  placing  it  quite 
near  the  opening,  seats  herself  with  laborious  de 
liberation. 

The  old  man  inclined  his  head  in  a  way  almost 
courtly,  as  he  said,  by  way  of  greeting  :  "  I  sholy 
is  proud  ter  see  you  home,  Sis'  Garrett.  I  'lowed 
dat  I  ketched  de  soun'  o'  yo'  footfalls  dis  rnawnin' 
on  yo'  side,  an'  I  listened,  an'  I  'ain't  heerd  'em  no 
mo',  an'  I  kep'  a-listenin',  'caze  I  craved  ter  heah 
you  a-meanderin'  'round  ;  but  I  'ain't  heerd  no 
mo*  tell  jes  now  I  heerd  yer  sneeze." 


A   GOLDEN   WEDDING  5 

The  woman  laughed.  "  Is  dat  so,  Br'er  Thorm- 
son  ?  I  know  I  is  a  loud  sneezer.  De  idee  o'  you 
takin'  note  o'  me  a-sneezin' !  Well,  well,  well ! 
Business  mus'  be  sort  o'  slow,  sho'  'nough,  ef  you 
'ain't  got  nuttn'  better  ter  do  'n  ter  set  up  a-list'- 
nin'  ter  me  a-sneezin'.  De  Lord  save  us  !  You  is 
a  case,  sho  !"  And  Sister  Garrett  laughed  again — 
a  peal  of  high-noted  laughter  worthy  of  a  light- 
hearted  and  a  younger  woman.  The  inborn  spirit 
of  coquetry  never  dies  in  some  women,  and  if  it 
seems  to  be  sleeping,  it  takes  only  the  inspiration 
of  a  masculine  presence  to  rouse  it  into  interest 
ing  play.  Sister  Garrett  was  a  woman  of  this 
type.  If  it  had  been  hers  to  die  of  old  age,  the 
coquette  in  her  would  still  have  died  young. 

It  was  the  optimistic  temper,  of  which  this  was 
an  indication,  which  made  her  lonely  neighbor 
welcome  the  sound  of  her  footsteps. 

The  stolid  old  man  was  entirely  guiltless  of 
anything  in  the  least  degree  personal  when  he  re 
ferred  to  her  sneezing,  and  yet  the  implication  of 
courtesy  rather  pleased  him.  He  looked  through 
the  hole  in  the  wall  at  the  old  woman,  and 
laughed. 

"  Dey's  a  sociable  soun'  ter  yo'  sneeze,  Sis'  Gar 
rett,  an'  a  man  livin'  like  I  does  by  he's  lone  se'f, 
he  fin's  a  heap  o'comp'ny  in  a  good,  frien'ly  sneeze 
a-comin'  f 'om  'crost  de  partitiom.  Hit  tecks  orf  a 
heap  o'  de  lonesorneness  o'  Chris'mus.  Look  like 
hit  calls  my  min'  f 'om  'way  back  yonder,  an'  brings 
me  ter  myse'f,  like.  Time  a  pusson  gits  ole,  look 


6  A   GOLDEN   WEDDING 

like  Chris'mus  is  a  lonesome  day,  any  way  yer 
tecks  it.  I  trus'  you's  come  home  ter  stay  over 
Chris'mus,  Sister  Garrett  ?" 

"  Yas,  sir ;  I  'lowed  ter  come  an'  set  out  heah 
on  de  po'ch  an'  sneeze  ter  keep  you  comp'ny, 
Br'er  Thormson." 

"  How  you  does  run  on !"  said  Thompson,  fool 
ishly  ;  but  the  woman  continued,  more  seriously : 

"  Yas  ;  I  come  home  fur  good.  I'm  done  beat 
out  an'  burned  out  a-stan'in'  over  cook-pots,  an'  I 
ain't  a-gwine  ter  do  it  stiddy  no  mo'." 

"How  you  gwine  do,  Sis'  Garrett?  I  knows 
you  ain't  a-gwine  ter  stay  home  an'  set  down, 
dry  so  !" 

"  Huccome  you  so  cuyus  'bout  me,  Br'er  Thorm 
son  ?  You  is  de  cuyuses'  man  !  Huccome  you 
know  I  'ain't  struck  de  lottery  ?" 

"  I  jes  teckin'  a  neighborly  intruss,  Sis'  Garrett; 
I  ain't  mean  no  harm." 

"  Ef  you  so  neighborly,  Br'er  Thormson,  hue- 
come  you  'ain't  axed  me  is  I  run  out  o'  terbacker?" 

The  old  man  shuffled  to  his  feet,  and  soon 
brought  from  his  room  a  paper  of  the  weed,  his 
pipe,  and  a  match. 

The  old  woman  took  her  own  pipe  from  her 
pocket,  and  presently  two  columns  of  smoke,  ris 
ing  from  opposite  sides,  blew  into  a  mingled  cloud 
above  the  partition,  and  moved  before  them  tow 
ard  the  south,  crossing  the  old  woman's  yard. 

"  Smoke  got  sociable  ways,  'ain't  it  ?"  said  she, 
as  she  watched  the  misty  cloud.  "  I  puffs  an'  you 


"SMOKE  GOT  SOCIABLE  WAYS,  AIN'T  IT?' 


A    GOLDEN    WEDDING  7 

puffs,  an'  time  de  partition!  gives  'em  a  chance, 
de  two  smokes  look  like  dee  des  nachelly  goes  to- 
gedder." 

"I  see  dee  moves  todes  de  souf,"  replied  the 
old  man,  "  an'  I  looks  fur  a  snap  o'  fros'  ter-night, 
an'  I'll  be  'j'iced  ter  see  it,  ter  week  up  de  kin- 
dlin'  trade.  Look  like  a  pusson  mought  starve  at 
dis  business  ef  dis  warm  winter  ain't  play  out 
soon." 

"  I  hates  a  hot  Chris'mus,"  said  the  old  woman. 

"I  hates  it  an'  I  loves  it,"  he  replied,  with  a 
touch  of  feeling — "  yas,  I  hates  it,  'caze  seem  like 
hit's  onnachel  an'  'ceitful,  like  pusson  a  pusson 
kyant  trus',  what  'd  put  up  a  warm  cheek  fur  yer 
ter  kiss,  an'  maybe  nex'  minute  turn  de  col'  shoul 
der  on  yer.  I  hates  it  dat-a-way ;  but  ag'in,  I 
loves  it  on  de  'count  o'  de  ricollectioms  hit  brings 
me.  De  nappies'  day  o'  my  life  was  a  hot  Chris' 
mus — de  day  I  got  ma'yed,  when  I  was  yong  an' 
full  o'  sperit." 

The  old  woman  looked  at  him  quickly.  <fDe 
Thormsons  come  f 'om  Georgy,  ain't  dee  ?"  she 
asked. 

"  Yas,  'm,  dee  comes  Pom  Georgy,"  he  replied, 
absently. 

Both  smoked  on  in  silence  for  a  while.  Finally 
the  woman  spoke  :  "  Whar  you  gwine  ter  eat  to- 
morrer,  Br'er  Thormson  ?" 

"  Who,  me  ?  I— I— I  don't  know,  Sis'  Garrett. 
Mos'ly  ev'y  Chris'mus  I  goes  roun'  an'  holps  some 
o'  my  lady  frien's  cookin'  in  de  big  houses,  fetch 


8  A    GOLDEN    WEDDING 

in  wood  fur  'em,  or  maybe  pick  de  tukkey,  an'  dee 
allus  persis'es  on  me  a-stayin'  ter  dinner — but  to- 
morrer — look  like  to-morrer — I  was  jes  a-studyhr 
'bout  dat — ef  I  could — 'f  I  could — I  ain't  no  cook. 
Sis'  Garrett ;  but  dar's  my  big  rade  rooster  step- 
pin'  roun'  so  high,  an'  lookin'  so  lonesome  sence 
ole  Muffly  strayed  orf — I  was  jes  lookin'  at  'im 
an'  a-studyin'  dat  ef  I  could — 'f  I  could — ef  you 
could — is  you  ever  fricasseed  a  chicken,  Sis'  Gar 
rett  ?" 

"  Lord  save  my  soul,  Br'er  Thormson !  I'm  a 
cook,  me !  I  c'd  fricassee  a  chicken  in  my  sleep, 
an'  dream  'bout  some'h'n  else  at  de  same  time — jes 
put  de  ingrejums  onder  my  han's." 

"  What  is  de  ingrejums,  Sister  Garrett  ?" 

"  De  ingrejums  ter  fricassee  a  chicken  ?  Nem- 
mine  'bout  dat.  You  des  gimme  de  chicken,  an' 
I  won't  pester  you  fur  de  ingrejums.  I  allus  keeps, 
a  little  seasonin'  by  me.  I  couldn't  'spect  myse'f 
fur  a  cook  ef  I  run  out  o'  my  trade-marks." 

The  old  man  was  pleased.  "  You  talks  like  a 
cook,  sho',  Sis'  Garrett.  When  you  converses  dat 
a-way,  look  like  I  c'n  smell  de  steam." 

"You'll  smell  it,  sho  'nough,  ef  I  passes  my 
han'  over  de  pot." 

"  Well,  ef  you  say  de  word,  de  ole  rade  rooster  '11 
say  he's  pra'rs  ter-night,  an'  we'll  'vide  up  on  de 
fricassee  fur  Chris'mus  dinner.  I  been  studyin' 
'bout  de  way  you  was  a-talkin'  'bout  de  smoke 
jes  now.  Maybe  de  smoke  o'  our  pipes  runs  to- 
gedder  fur  a  sign  ter  me  an'  you  dat  we  mought 


A    GOLDEN    WEDDING  9 

mix  in  an'  out  a  little  mo'  neighborly  an'  sociable 
like.  What  you  say,  Sis'  Garrett  ?" 

"  You  kill  de  rade  rooster,  an'  don't  fret  'bout 
de  smoke." 

"  An'  how  we  gwine  'vide  'im  up  ?  Is  you  gwine 
ter  pass  my  part  back  froo  de  hole  ?" 

"  I  'lowed  you  was  teckin'  a  lesson  f 'om  de  smoke 
des  now.  Nex'  time  you  studies  a  lesson,  you 
study  ter  de  een  o'  de  book.  'Ain't  you  seed  how 
de  smoke  blowed  over  ter  my  side?  Huccome 
you  kyan't  come  over  an'  eat  dinner  wid  me  ?  You 
ain't  pizen  an'  I  ain't  pizen,  an'  Gord  knows  de 
shtewed  chicken,  hit  ain't  a-gwine  ter  be  pizen." 

The  old  man  rubbed  his  hands  together,  smiled, 
and  bowed  his  acknowledgments  in  a  manner  gen 
uinely  elegant. 

"  I  recedes  ter  yo'  invertatiom  wid  a  full  heart, 
Sister  Garrett,  an'  ef  de  Lord  spares  my  life,  I'll 
shorely  be  on  han'.  You  done  spoke  de  fatal 
word.  Time  Mr.  Highstepper  was  beginnin'  ter 
pray  now !"  he  added,  laughing  immoderately  at 
his  own  wit,  as  he  glanced  at  the  rooster,  who,  all 
unconscious,  was  disporting  himself  in  the  sun. 
"  What  time  you  gwine  have  dinner,  Sister  Gar 
rett  ?" 

"'Twouldn't  be  no  Christmus  dinner  ter  me, 
less  'n  'twas  late,"  she  replied.  "  Le's  have  it  at 
de  white  folks's  time,  six  o'clock — dat  is,  ef  hit 
suit  yo'  circumstancial  convenience." 

"All  right,  Sis'  Garrett,  all  right.  Six  o'clock 
• — six  o'clock  on  a  Chris'mus  !  Dat's  de  time  o'  day 


10  A    GOLDEN   WEDDING 

I  got  ma'yed — six  o'clock  on  a  warm  Chris'mus. 
I  d'  know  hticcome  dat  comes  back  ter  me  ter- 
day.  I  b'lieve  hit's  de  smell  o'  dem  o'ange- 
flowers.  We  had  'em  dat  day  ;  dee  bloomed  out 
o'  season,  jes  like  dee  is  now,  an'  de  bride,  she  had 
a  whole  wreaf  ob  'em  on  'er  haid." 

The  woman  gave  him  a  quick  look,  as  she  had 
done  before.  "  You  say  de  Thormsons  come  f  om 
Georgy,  ain't  yer  ?"  she  asked,  eagerly. 

"  Yas,  'm,  dat  what  I  say  ;  dee  is  come  f 'om 
Georgy." 

The  old  man  had  risen.  "  Well,  so  long,  Sis' 
Garrett,"  he  said,  moving  away.  "  I  gwine  git  a 
han'ful  o'  corn  an'  bait  up  Mr.  Highstepper,  an' 
teach  'im  'ligion,  'caze  he's  boun'  fur  a  hot  place. 
So  long!" 

And  so  they  parted.  The  old  woman  sat  silent 
ly  ruminating  a  long  time  that  night  before  going 
to  bed. 

How  strange  it  was  that  the  old  man  Thomp 
son  had  been  married  on  Christmas,  and  his  wife 
had  worn  fresh  orange-flowers !  How  very  strange ! 
All  this  had  happened  to  her  when  she  was  young. 
She  had  been  a  Christmas  bride,  and  had  worn 
an  orange  wreath  ;  but  of  course  this  was  in  Lou 
isiana,  and  her  husband  was  tall  and  straight  and 
handsome — everything  that  Thompson  was  not. 
Still,  it  was  strange,  and  the  coincidence  filled  her 
heart  with  an  old  yearning.  If  she  could  but  meet 
him  once  again,  this  husband  of  her  youth,  she 
would  die  happy ;  but  this  was  more  than  she 


A   GOLDEN    WEDDING  11 

could  hope  for,  for  it  had  all  happened — she  had 
no  idea  how  many  years  ago. 

It  had  been  an  imprudent  marriage,  ill-advised 
and  unfortunate.  She  and  he  had  been  the  prop 
erty  of  different  families.  The  evil  prophesied 
had  come  true.  Her  husband's  owner  had  moved 
into  another  state,  and  carried  all  his  goods  with 
him,  and  that  had  been  the  end. 

After  a  brief  season  of  happiness,  the  marriage 
had  brought  her  only  separation  and  sorrow,  and 
yet  she  would  not  part  with  the  memory  of  this 
short  period  for  all  else  that  life  had  brought  her. 

It  was  late  when  she  rose  from  her  meditations, 
knelt  for  an  audible  prayer  of  unusual  length,  and 
finally  climbed  into  her  high,  soft  bed,  where,  sur 
rounded  by  friends  of  her  youth,  and  with  the  sen 
sation  of  an  orange-wreath  lying  upon  her  old  head, 
in  dreams  she  fell  asleep. 

The  red  rooster  was  killed  that  night,  picked 
clean  to  a  feather,  and  early  next  morning  passed 
through  the  partition. 

There  had  been  a  change  in  the  weather  about 
midnight,  and  by  noon  next  day  a  drizzling  rain 
had  given  way  to  a  light  fall  of  sleet — a  transition 
not  uncommon  in  this  Southern  city.  At  five 
o'clock  the  sleet  was  still  falling,  and  at  six  the 
storm  had  grown  more  violent. 

Thompson,  rigged  cap-a-pie  in  his  foxy  broad 
cloth  suit,  stood  looking  out  upon  the  weather. 

It  was  time  to  go,  so  said  the  silver  watch  in 
his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  so  said  the  savory  odor 


12  A    GOLDEN    WEDDING 

that  came  through  the  key-hole  and  under  the 
barred  door  which  separated  the  two  rooms. 

Thompson  did  not  know  what  to  do.  Even 
ignoring  the  question  of  rain  and  rheumatism, 
how  would  it  look  for  a  man  to  go  out  in  such  a 
storm — -just for  dinner? 

"  Hit  'd  look  like  a  pusson  was  clean  starved 
out,  ter  go  'way  out  ter  dat  front  gate  an'  back 
ag'in,  an'  come  in  wet  as  a  drownded  rat,  jes — 
jes  fur  grub  !"  he  soliloquized. 

While  he  stood  at  the  open  door,  growing  mo 
mentarily  more  irresolute  as  the  storm  rose  in  vio 
lence,  and  more  eager  as  the  appetizing  steam 
grew  in  flavor,  there  came  a  rap  at  the  partition. 
He  was  there  in  a  moment. 

"  Br'er  Thormson,"  said  the  expectant  hostess, 
"  ef  you'll  len'  me  a  axe  I'll  prize  open  de  do'  'twix' 
yo*  side  an'  mine,  so's  you  c'n  come  froo,  ef  you'll 
have  de  manners  an'  de  perliteness  ter  nail  it  up 
ag'in  quick's  we  gits  done  dinner.  'Tain't  no  use 
fur  you  ter  git  drownded  out  goin'  roun',  an'  de 
chicken  schew,  hit's  des  done  up  ter  de  right  notch 
now." 

Thompson  was  most  happy  to  promise  to  repair 
any  injury  resulting  from  the  unbarring  of  the 
door,  and  it  was  soon  open,  and  the  Christmas 
feast  a  present  reality. 

"  I  hates  ter  ax  yer  ter  fetch  yer  knife  'n'  fork, 
Br'er  Thormson,  but  I  boun'  ter  do  it,  'less'n  we'd 
borrer  back  'n'  f  o'th — er  else  I'd  'suit  yer  by  eatin' 
wid  my  fingers — " 


JL   GOLDEN   WEDDING  13 

"  Scuse  me,  scuse  me,  I  pray,"  said  Thompson, 
bowing  and  smiling  ;  "  I  oughter  had  de  sense  an' 
de  manners  ter  fetch — ter  fetch  de  conveniences 
o'  de  'casiom ;  but  I  'ain't  been  movin'  roun'  in 
s'ciety  fur — fur  so  long,  I  'ain't  got  no  mo'  perlite- 
ness  'n  one  o'  dese  heah  Hottenpotots — er  some'h'n' 
riz  in  de  woods." 

With  this  profuse  apology  he  disappeared,  hob 
bling  into  his  own  room,  whence  he  soon  returned 
with  the  desired  implements,  adding  also  a  tum 
bler  and  a  chair,  as  he  had  taken  note  of  these 
further  needs  during  his  apology. 

A  second  tour  through  his  apartment  resulted 
in  the  production  of  a  handsome  orange  branch, 
which  having  stuck  in  a  bottle,  he  placed  now  as 
floral  ornament  in  the  centre  of  the  table. 

"  Look  like  we  ought  ter  have  some  sort  o'  bou 
quet  fur  ter  glorify  our  eyes  an'  witness  fur  de 
'casiom,"  said  Thompson,  as  he  stood  off  in  admi 
ration,  "an'  ter  my  eyes  dat's  purty,  an'  hit's 
sweet-smellin'  too." 

"  Hit's  sweet  tell  yer  git  a  sniff  o'  de  fricassee, 
an'  dat  ain't  leave  no  room  fur  no  fainty  flower 
smell,"  said  the  hostess,  as  she  placed  the  steam 
ing  dish  opposite  Thompson's  plate.  "Teck  a 
cheer  an'  set  down  an'  meek  yerse'f  at  home,  fur's 
yer  able,  Br'er  Thormson.  What  yer  see  befo' 
yer  ain't  sofistercated  an'  fine,  but  I  gua'ntee  hit's 
clean  an'  seasonable." 

The  dinner  was  fit  for  a  king.  The  steaming 
Btew,  filling  the  room  with  its  essence,  both  rich 


14  A    GOLDEN    WEDDING 

and  delicate,  a  bowl  of  snowy,  whole-grained  rice, 
a  tin  plate  of  roasted  sweet-potatoes,  gray  with  a 
hint  of  ashes  upon  their  coats,  a  pone  of  golden 
egg-bread,  and  a  pot  of  coffee,  obtrusively  aro 
matic,  composed  the  simple  menu. 

It  is  but  fair  to  observe  to  his  credit  that  the 
eager  expression  of  physical  hunger  gradually 
faded  from  his  old  face  as  the  guest,  at  the  invi 
tation  of  the  hostess,  raised  his  right  hand  sol 
emnly,  and,  closing  his  eyes,  addressed  the  throne 
of  grace  with  a  fervent  though  brief  thanksgiving. 

The  occasion  was  in  every  sense  a  success, 
and  the  conversation  of  the  guest  thickly  inter 
spersed  with  parentheses  complimenting  the  vari 
ous  dishes : 

"Umh  !     Dishere  gravy  tecks  me  ''way  back! 

"  Dey  ain't  none  o'  dese  heah  cooks  a-circulatin' 
roun'  dese  days  dat  knows  de  true  in'ardness  o' 
cookin'. 

"  You  got  dese  dumplin's  in  dis  gravy  kivered 
wid  velvet,  'ain't  yer  ?  Dee  slips  down  like  a  sol- 
jer  gwine  home  on  a  furlough. 

"Dis  heah  co'n-brade 'd  meek  poun'-cake  blush 
an'  clair  out. 

"  Dese  heah  pertaters  is  as  sugary  and  mealy- 
moufed  as  a  ligislatur  candidate  !" 

Such  as  these  were  the  overflowing  sentiments 
of  the  happy  guest,  while  his  hostess,  with  hos 
pitable  insistence,  kept  his  plate  filled. 

At  length,  however,  Thompson  warded  off  fur 
ther  supply  by  repeated  protest  that  every  crack 


A    GOLDEN    WEDDING  15 

was  filled  up  "  clair  down  ter  his  boots."  He 
moved  back  a  little,  still  resting  his  elbow  on  the 
table,  while  the  woman  drew  her  chair  round  to 
the  fire,  and  the  two  fell  into  comfortable  after- 
dinner  conversation.  As  was  but  natural,  these 
two,  both  near  the  end  of  their  lives,  soon  drifted 
into  retrospection. 

"  Hit's  funny,"  said  the  old  man,  after  a  pause, 
as  he  plucked  an  orange-flower  and  held  it,  man 
fashion,  in  the  hollow  of  his  palm  to  his  nostril — 
"  hit's  funny  how  de  ref umeries  ob  a  blorsom  kin 
wuck  on  a  pusson's  min',  an'  raise  up  ricollectioms 
o'  times  an'  faces." 

He  handed  the  woman  a  stemless  flower.  Tak 
ing  it  daintily  between  her  thumb  and  first  finger, 
she  smelt  it  meditatively. 

"  An'  voices,"  she  added,  presently. 

"H-how  M  you  say  dat?" 

"An'  voices,  I  say.  De  flagrams  o'  dis  flower 
brings  back  a  voice  ter  me — a  voice  ob — ob  a 
frien'  o'  mine." 

"  Yas,  hit  do  bring  back  voices  too.  Look  like 
I  c'n  shet  my  eyes  an'  see  a  whole  passel  o'  darkies 
a-standin'  roun'  a  ole-time  kyabin,  an'  a  one-arm 
preacher  standin'  'ginstde  hyearth  a-restin'  'is  book 
orn  de  mantel-shelf ;  an'  I  kin  feel  myse'f  a-walk- 
in'  in  wid  de  purties',  high-haidedes',  bright-eyedes' 
black  gal  in  de  Nunited  States.  She  was  all  dressed 
up  in  some  sort  o'  white  fliffy-fluffy  dress,  wid  a 
whole  wreaf  o'  dese  heah  blorsoms  on  'er  haid,  an', 
laws-a-mussy,  ef  she  warn't  purty  !  She  a-stan'in1 


16  A   GOLDEN    WEDDING 

up,  so  black  an'  shinin',  in  de  mids'  o*  so  much 
white  grandeur,  looked  jes  like  one  o'  dese  little 
slick  blackbirds  in  a  snow-bank !  Oh,  ef  I  c'd  jes 
see  'er  once-t  ag'in!  Ef  she's  in  de  Ian'  o'  de  livin', 
I'd  know  'er,  sho !  In  co'se  I  know  she's  boun' 
ter  be  changed  by  de  blightin'  o'  time ;  but  eyes 
is  eyes,  she  couldn't  nuver  lose  dem  flashy-dashy, 
come-ef-yer-dare  black  eyes,  'less'n  blin'ness  strick 
en  'er  ;  an'  sperit  is  sperit,  an'  I  know  long  as  she 
live  she's  boun'  ter  hoi'  a  high  haid.  We  had 
jes  one  little  baby — a  peart  little  boy — time  de 
partin'  come.  I  hope  Gord  spared  'im  ter  'er." 

The  old  woman  had  been  listening  alertly  all 
along,  but  now  she  peered  into  the  speaker's  face. 
"  Ain't  you  say  de  Thormsons  come  f 'om  Georgy  ?" 
she  asked,  eagerly. 

"  Y-yas,  'm,  dee  is.  Huccome  you  keep  a-axin' 
me  is  de  Thormsons  come  f 'om  Georgy  ?  Is  yer 
knowed  any  ob  'em  ?" 

Her  face  was  troubled.  "  No,  no,  Br'er  Thorm- 
son,  I  'ain't  knowed  'em.  I  des  axin'  yer  so." 

The  old  man  continued :  "  Ef  hit  was  Gord's 
will  dat  I  c'd  jes  see  'er  ag'in  once  mo'  'fo'  I  die, 
an'  set  down  an'  talk  wid  'er,  an'  know  all  'er  ups 
an'  downs  sence  I  lef '  'er  when  I  went  ter  Geor- 

gy-" 

"  'Ain't  you  said  you  come  f'om  Georgy,  Br'er 
Thormson  ?" 

"Yas,  'm,  dat  so.  I  is  come  f'om  Georgy,  but 
dis  heah  what  I'm  talkin'  'bout  now,  hit's  away 
back  yonder — long  'fo'  de  'clarin'  o'  wah — 'fo'  my 


A   GOLDEN   WEDDING  17 

marster  move  ter  Georgy — when  I  was  a  yong 
buck.  I  lived  in  Louisiana  dem  days,  an'  I  mar 
ried,  'ginst  de  'visemint  o'  my  marster,  a  purty 
little  black  gal  named  Cicely,  what  b'long  ter  de 
Morgans  on  de  coas',  on  de  plantation  'j'inin'  we's 
place.  In  co'se  I  done  passed  de  mos'  o'  my  life 
in  Georgy,  but  quick's  de  wah  was  over  an'  Free 
dom  loosen  me,  I  come  clair  back  ter  de  coas' — I 
wucked  my  way  down — a-huntin'  fur  Cicely  ;  but 
'twarn't  no  use.  Her  marster  done  had  been  kilt 
in  de  army,  an'  look  like  ev'y thing  was  gone  ter 
rack  V  ruin,  an'  I  couldn't  heah  nuttn',  an'  no 
body  seem  like  dee  'membered  me,  so  I  come  on 
down  heah  ter  Noo  'Leans — an'  let  'lone  prayin'  fur 
de  sight  an'  keepin'  my  eyes  open,  I  done  guv  up 
de  hunt,  'caze  I  mought  be  trablin'  eas'  while  she 
gwine  wes',  an'  ef  hit's  de  Lord's  will,  He  c'n  Ian' 
'er  right  heah — an'  ef  'tain't,  well — maybe  hit's 
fur  de  bes',  'caze,  in  co'se,  in  all  dese  yeahs  she 
mought  o'  ceasted  ter  love  me — but  I  ain't  look 
fur  dat,  'caze  de  way  my  heart  hoi'  ter  her,  I 
b'lieve  she  done  helt  ter  me  too.  Ef  I  c'd  jes  see 
'er !  Dey  ain't  no  gals  like  her  dese  days.  She 
was  de  ole-time  sort.  Yer  'ain't  nuver  is  met  up 
wid  no  Morgan  people  f 'om  de  coas',  is  yer  ?" 

The  old  man  had  become  so  much  absorbed  in 
his  own  past  that  he  did  not  perceive  that  the 
woman  was  silently  weeping.  The  room,  lit  only 
by  the  faint  glow  of  a  low  fire  and  the  fitful  flick 
er  of  an  expiring  candle,  was  nearly  dark. 

The  old  woman  steadied  her  voice  by  an  effort, 
2 


18  A    GOLDEN    WEDDING 

and  made  a  feeble  attempt  to  straighten  her 
stooped  figure. 

"You  say  she  got  a  high  haid  an'  a  bright  eye 
— Br'er  Thormson — but  you  ain't  'low  dat  maybe 
grievin'  an'  say  in'  nuttn'  all  dese  yeahs  mought 
bring  down  a  proud  haid;  an'  yer  know" — her 
voice  trembled — "y-yer  know  cookin'  over  a  cook- 
stove,  hit  nachelly  blurs  a  pusson's  eyes." 

"I  knows  all  dat,"  he  replied,  shaking  his  head 
emphatically — "  I  knows  all  dat ;  but — but  you 
'ain't  knowed  little  Cicely.  She  warn't  none  o' 
de  lettin'  down  sort.  In  co'se  I's  perpared  ter  see 
'er  gray,  maybe,  an'  maybe  show  age,  but  ef  she's 
a-livin',  I'm  plumb  sho  she  got  a  quick  eye  an'  a 
high  haid  yit." 

The  old  woman's  face  was  twitching  nervously. 
Her  dim  eyes,  doubly  dimmed  with  tears,  rested 
upon  the  face  of  the  man  whom  she  knew  to  be 
the  husband  of  her  youth,  but  there  was  something 
in  the  inborn  pride  of  the  woman — call  it  coquet 
ry  if  you  will — which  resented  the  contrast  be 
tween  his  memory's  picture  and  herself. 

Finally  she  said,  with  wonderful  control,  though 
the  corners  of  her  mouth  were  quivering: 

"  Br'er  Thormson,  dey's  a  man  what  I'd  like  ter 
meet  up  wid  ag'in  'fo'  I  die,  please  Gord,  an'  sence 
you  come  f'om  de  coas',  maybe  you  mought  o' 
knowed  'im.  He  goed  by  de  name  o'  Smiff,  Aleck 
Smiff—  " 

"  Wh-wh-wh-wh-wha'?"  the  old  man  stammer 
ed,  in  a  bewildered  effort  to  speak ;  but  she  paid 
no  attention  to  him. 


A    GOLDEN    WEDDING  19 

"  He  was  a  man  taller'n  you  is,  but  maybe  dat 
was  de  way  he  hoi'  'isse'f — he  hoi'  'isse'f  des  like 
a  Presiden' — an'  he  comb  'is  ha'r  high  up  on  top 
'is  haid,  des  like  a  rooster  wid  a  proud  comb,  an' 
when  he'd  open  'is  mouf  ter  talk,  'is  voice  'd  come 
out  brave  an'  strong,  des  like  de  deep  notes  on  a 
melojum.  I'd  know  dat  voice  in  a  chorus  o'  an 
gels  !  Ef — ef  I  c'd  meet  up  wid  dat  man,  Br'er 
Thormson,  look  like  my  heart  'd  turn  ter  joy, 
'caze — 'caze  he — he'  was  my  husban'." 

It  was  all  she  could  do  to  say  these  last  words, 
and  she  caught  her  breath  nervously  as  she  pro 
ceeded: 

"  I'd  sholy  know  'im  ef  I  c'd  ketch  de  soun'  o' 
dat  noble  voice.  Yer  'ain't  nuver  is  met  up  wid 
no  man  like  dat,  is  yer  ?" 

The  old  man  was  peering  into  her  face  as  one 
dazed. 

"  L — look  like  I  ain't  onderstan'  yer  good,"  he 
said.  He  was  trembling,  and  his  voice,  suffering 
from  agitation,  exceeded  even  its  usual  quality  of 
piping  thinness. 

"  I  say,  yer  'ain't  nuver  knowed  no  man  like  dat, 
is  yer,  f'om  de  coas',  name  Aleck  Smiff,  wid  a  fine 
haid  o'  black  ha'r,  an'  shinin'  white  toofs,  same  as 
de  milk-white  grains  on  a  roas'n'  ear,  an'  a  voice 
joyous  an'  persuadin',  like  a  he-bird's  song,  an' — " 

The  old  man  had  been  weeping  silently,  but 
now  he  interrupted  her  by  a  tremulous  wave  of 
his  hand,  and  with  a  pathetic  effort  to  steady  his 
voice,  began  to  answer  her  : 


20  A   GOLDEN   WEDDING 

"  L — look  like — look  like  dat  when  you's  a-talk- 
in'  'bout — hit  was  a  long  time  ago,  Cice — Sis' 
Garrett,  an'  yer  know  a  pusson's  voice — hit's — 
hit's  boun'  ter  teck  on  a  high  note  when  age 
stricken  'im  an'  'e  begin  a-frailin' — " 

"  In  co'se  I  knows  all  dat,"  said  she  ;  "  I  knows 
all  dat.  I  'lows  fur  de  wuckin's  'o  time  on  'im.  I 
ain't  spec'  ter  see  'im  skip  roun'  lively  like  he  done 
when  I  knowed  'im  ;  but  de  voice,  an'  de  way  he 
comb  'is  haid,  an'  dem  shinin'  white  toofs — all  dat 
boun'  ter  tell  on  a  bordy." 

His  head  sank  heavily  on  his  hand,  and  he  was 
silent  for  a  time.  Finally  he  said :  "  Ain't  yer 
know,  S-Sis' — Sis'  Garrett,  dat  when  age  an'  sorrer 
stricken  a  man,  ev'ything  boun'  ter  come  back  on 
'im?  Dat's  huccome  dee  proves  de  Book  what 
fo'tell  de  secon'  chil'hood.  De  toofs,  dee  all  draps 
out,  same  as  a  onteethin'  baby  ;  de  ha'r  on  a 
pusson's  haid,  hit  clair  de  track  too  ;  an'  den — 
look  like  'tain'  no  use  fur  'im  ter  try  ter  stan'  up 
'g'ins'  dese  losses  like  a  man,  'caze  time  dat  high 
note  strack  'im  he  kyan't  play  no  bluff  game;  he's 
jes  nachelly  bleege  ter  give  up,  an'  'low  dat  de 
times  an'  de  seasons  done  beat  'im  out." 

He  hesitated,  searching  the  old  woman's  face, 
but  she  made  no  sign,  and  he  went  on  : 

"  Dat  high  note  look  ter  me  like  hit  match  wid 
de  gorslin's,  an'  same  as  a  yong  buck  git  de  gors- 
lin's,  an'  talk  high  fur  a  noterfercatiom  ter  stan'  up 
an'  be  a  man,  hit  come  on  'im  ag'in  time  he  gits 
ole  fur  a  noterfercatiom  dat  de  battle  done  fit,  an' 
he  'bleege  ter  give  up  de  fight  and  let  down  1" 


A    GOLDEN    WEDDING  21 

He  studied  his  hearer's  face  for  a  second  pause, 
but  she  still  seemed  looking  into  space,  and  was 
silent.  Her  pride  required  that  his  humiliation 
should  be  complete. 

"  Look  like,"  he  resumed — "  look  like  dat  high 
note  teck  a  man  twice-t,  some'h'n'  like  de  way  a 
ingine  blow  de  trumpit  twice-t.  Hit  blow  fus, 
when  de  train  start  orf,  ter  say  dee  gwine  turn 
on  de  steam ;  an'  bimeby  hit  blow  agin,  ter  ease 
up,  'caze  de  statiom's  in  sight." 

Another  silence.  The  old  man  was  greatly 
tried. 

"  Ef — ef  dis  man  Smiff  been  a-pinin'  fur  you  in 
'is  heart — grief,  hit  '11  tell  on  a  voice  too — an' 
maybe  he  mought  talk  high  jes  f'om  time  an' 
sorrer  wuckin'  on  'im — an' — an'  lonesomeness — 
an'— an'  all  dat." 

There  were  tears  in  his  voice  now. 

"  Ef — ef  I  c'd  meet — could  meet  up  wid  Cicely, 
I'd  crave  ter  fine  'er  changed,  'caze  I  knows  ef 
she  warn't,  she  wouldn't  have  no  use  fur  a  ole 
man  like  me." 

He  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and  fell  to 
sobbing. 

"  Ef — ef  she  was  high-haided — an'  peart-eyed 
— she — she  mought  turn  'er  back  on  me — an' 
maybe  not  know  me. — Oh,  my  Gord  ! — an'  maybe 
not  know  me  ! — But — ef  'er  haid  was  low  wid  de 
weight  o'  time — like  mine  is — an'  'er  eyes  was 
ondimmed  wid  sorrer — like  mine  is — an'  'er  heart 
weak  wid  yearnin' — like  mine  is — " 


22  A   GOLDEN   WEDDING 

His  voice,  which  had  failed  him  piteously  at 
each  repetition  of  the  words  "like  mine  is," 
broke  entirely  here. 

The  woman  was  now  also  weeping  aloud.  Ris 
ing  from  her  chair,  she  fell  upon  her  knees  at  his 
side.  "  Hush,  Aleck  !"  she  screamed.  "  Hush,  I 
say  !  I  can't  stan'  no  mo'  !  Oh,  my  Gord  !"  Her 
head  fell  upon  his  knees,  and  her  arms  were  about 
his  body. 

"  Glory  !  glory  be  ter  Gord  !"  shouted  the  old 
man,  burying  his  face  upon  her  neck,  while  his 
arms  fell  over  her  shoulders. 

It  was  many  moments  before  any  word  was 
spoken,  save  a  muffled  "  Glory  !"  or  "  Praise 
Gord  !" 

At  last,  however,  the  old  man  wiped  his  face, 
and  after  several  futile  attempts  to  speak,  said, 
"  Ci-Cicely,  wh-whar  little  Joe  ?" 

But  she  could  not  answer.  Moving  her  head 
from  side  to  side,  however,  she  indicated  that  she 
did  not  know. 

The  night  was  far  spent  when,  after  having 
with  mingled  tears  and  laughter  reviewed  their 
lives,  the  old  couple  composed  themselves  for  a 
quiet  talk.  Both  had  been  resold  soon  after  their 
separation,  and  bore  the  names  of  their  last 
owners. 

"You  know  some'h'n',  Cicely,"  said  the  old 
man,  smiling,  when  after  an  interchange  of  ex 
periences  they  returned  to  the  question  of  mutual 
recognition — "  yer  know  some'h'n',  Cicely,  I  mis- 


A    GOLDEN    WEDDING  23 

trusted  de  seasonin'  o'  dat  fricasseed  chicken  f 'om 
de  fus'." 

"'Twas  de  o'ange  blorsoms  what  sot  me  ter 
Btudyin',  Aleck,"  said  she  ;  "  an"  when  I'd  look 
acrost  de  table  at  yer,  an'  you  'd  talk  'bout 
marryin'  on  a  Chris'mus,  an'  havin'  de  o'ange 
blooms,  seemed  like  I'd  commence  ter  git  warm, 
an'  I'd  be  close-t  up  ter  reconnizin'  yer,  an'  den 
you'd  say  some'h'n'  'bout  Georgy,  an'  I'd  be  col' 
as  ice  agin,  des  like  de  chillen  a-gropin'  roun' 
arter  a  switch  when  somebody  holler  out,  'Now 
yer  hot  !'  an'  'fo'  dee  c'n  tu'n  roun',  'ner  one  sing 
out,  *  Now  yer  col' !'  An'  den  when  you  teched 
on  de  baby,  I  d'  know  huccome  I  kep'  still — 
look  like  we  was  des  'bleege  ter  be  us,  an'  den 
right  on  top  o'  dat  you  'spon'  dat  you  is  come 
f 'om  Georgy,  an'  I  was  on  de  rack  —  wid  Chris' 
mus  an'  de  o'ange  smell,  an'  seem  like  you  so 
p'intedly  match  an'  so  p'intedly  ain't  match  wid 
Aleck.  Yer  voice  is  failed  yer  some,  Aleck  ;  but 
when  I  listens  ter  it  good,  seem  like  de  ole  ring, 
hit  comes  back.  Ef  you'd  o'  let  'lone  talkin'  'bout 
Georgy,  I'd  o'  knowed  it  f'orn  de  fus,.  but  I  'rnem- 
bered  dat  you  went  ter  Atalanta,  an'  in  co'se 
Georgy,  hit  put  me  orf  de  track." 

"'Tlanta  an'  Georgy,  dee  jes  de  same,  Cicely." 

"  Is  dee  ?     Well,  well  !     'Trav'lin'   roun'   like 

you's  been,  a  pusson    do    git   educatiom.      You 

mus'  scuse  my  grammar,  but  I  'lowed  dee  was 

two  far  countries,  maybe  'crost  de  oceain  f'om 


24  A   GOLDEN   WEDDING 

"No,  no.  'Tlanta,  dat's  jes,  yer  mought  say, 
de  quality  name,  an'  de  people  in  de  cidy  what 
put  on  style  —  yer  know  how  dee  is  —  dee  jes 
nachelly  'bleege  ter  teck  on  some'h'n'  ter  look 
like  hit  stan'  fur  grandjer,  an'  dee  claims  de 
name  o'  'Tlanta  dat-a-way  ;  an'  dem  what  live 
roun'  in  de  highways  an'  byways,  dee  jes  teck  on 
de  plain  name  o'  Georgy,  dry  so." 

"  Of  cose,"  said  she. 

The  night  was  far  spent,  and  the  old  couple  still 
sat  talking — living  over  together  in  one  night  of 
dim  retrospection  their  long  lives  spent  apart. 

They  wept  and  laughed  many  times  over  the 
sorrows  and  surprises  of  the  reminiscence,  and 
these  emotions  were  pathetically  mingled  as  the 
mother  reviewed  the  life  of  their  child  from  his 
infancy,  at  the  time  when  the  father  was  taken 
away,  to  his  maturity,  and  then  to  the  time  of  the 
war,  when,  to  use  her  own  words,  "  look  like 
time  he  ketched  de  name  o'  freedom,  he  'ain't 
had  no  sense  lef,  an'  run  orf  an'  j'ined  de  inemy 
an'  turned  Yankee,  an'  nuver  was  heerd  of  no 
mo'." 

The  old  man  alternated  between  laughter  and 
tears  over  her  description  of  the  lad,  weeping  as 
she  emphasized  the  points  of  resemblance  to  his 
father  in  matters  of  comfort  to  herself,  and 
laughing  as  she  pursued  the  subject  of  heredity 
further,  somewhat  in  this  wise  : 

"Yas,  he  was  des  de  spi't  'n'  image  o'  you, 
Aleck.  He  walk  like  you,  proud  an'  bigotified  ; 


A   GOLDEN   WEDDING  25 

but  des  strack  a  bow  'crost  de  fiddle,  an'  ev'y 
j'int  in  'is  bordy  look  like  hit  'd  loosen  up  an' 
'spon'  ter  de  chune.  An'  you  know  de  way  you 
use  ter  wrop  an'  tie  up  de  middle  o'  yo'  ha'r  all 
de  week,  an'  grease  it  wid  a  taller  candle  ter 
open  it  up  of  a  Sunday — well,  little  Joe  he  favored 
you  dat-a-way.  Look  like  you  is  los'  yo'  ha'r 
purty  consider'ble,  Aleck,"  she  continued,  glanc 
ing  at  his  bald  pate,  "but  in  co'se  you  'ain't 
been  half  reg'lated.  Time  I  gits  some  goose- 
grease  an'  buggomot  an'  yarbs,  an'  bile  'em  down 
good,  an'  rub  'em  in  on  de  full  o'  de  moon,  hit 
'11  come  out  ag'in ;  an'  ef  it  don't,  hit  '11  nour'sh 
an'  cher'sh  de  roots  good,  an'  polish  de  skin.  Is 
yer  ever  tuck  ingon  syrup  fur  yer  col',  Aleck  ?" 

"  I  'ain't  got  no  col',  Cicely.  Huccome  you  ax 
me  dat?" 

"  Look  ter  me  like  you's  a  little  hoa'se,  ain't 
yer?" 

"  Is  I  ?  Id'  know  ef  I  is  er  not.  I  'ain't  had 
nobody  ter  catechise  me  'bout  my  cornstitutiom, 
an'  take  no  intruss  in  me  fur  so  long,  I  jes  tecks 
myse'f  as  a  fines  myse'f,  an'  ax  no  questioms.  In 
co'se,  my  so'e  foot,  I  knowed  dat  warn't  nachel, 
an'  I  been  a-tamperin'  wid  it  good  as  I  could,  but 
look  like  hit  ain't  uiendin'  none." 

"Maybe  hit  crave  a  new  han',  Aleck.  Lif  it 
up  heah  on  my  knee  an'  lemme  see  it." 

He  raised  his  foot  laboriously,  and  rested  it  in 
his  old  wife's  lap.  With  a  tender  hand  she  slip 
ped  off  the  heavy  shoe,  pulled  off  an  almost 


26  A    GOLDEN   WEDDING 

footless  sock,  and  gently  unwound  the  bound 
ankle. 

"  You  sholy  is  you,"  she  said,  laughing,  as  she 
stroked  his  old  foot.  "I'd  know  dat  foot  in  a 
crowd,  de  way  de  big  toe  treshpash  on  de  nex' 
one." 

"  Co'se  me  me,"  he  responded,  with  a  chuckle. 
"  Ef — ef  I  'lowed  I  was  somebordy  else  a-puttV 
he's  foot  up  in  yo'  lap  so  sporntanyus,  I'd — I'd 
shoot  'im  sho,  perf  essor  as  I  is  !" 

The  suffering  ankle  was  tenderly  manipulated, 
and  pronounced  already  better  for  the  sympathet 
ic  tending. 

"  Dey  ain't  no  'casiom  ter  nail  up  de  do'  no  mo', 
is  dey  ?"  said  the  old  man,  finally,  with  a  smiling 
glance  at  the  fallen  bar. 

"  I  been  a  settin'  heah  ponderin',  Aleck,"  said 
she,  "  an'  seem  ter  me,  bein'  as  you  an'  me  Stan's 
high  in  de  chu'ch,  an'  dey  is  so  much  upro'rious 
doin's  an'  goin's  on  dese  days,  an'  so  much  scan- 
dalizin',  we  ought  ter  be  calt  out  ag'in  f'om  de 
pulpit  fur  man  an'  wife  ;  an'  while  I  ain't  say  nail 
de  do',  I  say  we  better  des  keep  it  shet,  an'  set 
out  on  de  two  sides  o'  de  partition!  (ef  a  warm 
spell  come  ag'in)  tell  over  Sunday,  an'  den  we  c'n 
stan'  up  in  chu'ch  ag'in,  'caze  you  know  dee  'ain't 
got  nuttn'  but  'cep'  des  my  word  an'  yo'  word  ter 
stan'  'twix'  us  an'  scandalizemint,  ef  dee  choose 
ter  p'int  a  finger  at  us." 

"  What  yer  mean,  Cicely  ?  Is  yer  mean  fur  me 
ter  go  home  ?" 


A   GOLDEN   WEDDING  27 

"  Yas,  Aleck.  I  b'lieve  dat's  de  bes',  tell  you 
talks  to  Br'er  Brown  an'  git  'im  ter  call  us  out  in 
chu'ch." 

"  Dat  look  like  foolishness  ter  me,  Cicely." 

"  In  co'se  hit's  foolishness  'twix'  you  an'  me, 
Aleck  ;  but  hit's  good  hard  sense  de  way  wo 
Stan's  'fo'  de  worl'.  Ef  somebordy  'd  come  in 
heah  an'  fin'  dat  do'  open,  an'  you  maybe  on  de 
wrong  side,  all  de  splainin'  we  c'd  do  arterwards 
hit  'd  on'y  aggervate  de  scandal  'fo'  de  worl'. 
You  go  on  home  now.  Hit's  'mos'  day,  an'  you 
needs  a  nap  o'  sleep  'fo'  sunup." 

The  old  man  laughed,  and  waiving  further 
protest,  betook  himself  through  the  open  door 
to  his  own  apartment.  A  dim  light  coming 
through  the  window  seemed  to  color  the  candle- 
flame  a  deeper  orange.  It  was  the  first  ray  of  a 
rising  sun. 

"  Oh,  Cicely,"  he  called,  as  he  stood,  candle  in 
hand,  at  the  door — "  oh,  Cicely,  ban'  me  a  ole 
josey  er  some'h'n'  o'  yo's,  honey,  ter  hang  up 
over  heah,  won't  yer  ?  Dis  room  look  like  hit's 
got  a  sudden  spell  o'  emptiness,  an'  seem  like  hit's 
lonesome  as  de  grave.  I  'feerd  I  mought  go  ter 
sleep  an'  week  up  an'  mistrus'  all  dis  fur  a  dream, 
'less'n  I  had  a  ole  ap'on  er  josey  er  some'h'n'  ter 
ketch  my  eyes  quick's  I  opens  'em.  Hit  'd  he'p 
me  ter  pass  de  time  tell  Sunday." 

"  G'way  f 'om  heah,  Aleck  !  I  ain't  a-gwine  do 
no  sech  of  a  thing  !  I  ain't  gwine  have  no  josey 
'ginst  me  'fo'  de  Cornf'ence ; 


28  A    GOLDEN    WEDDING 

an'  ef  some  o'  dem  busybordy  br'ers  an'  sisters 
come  a-prowlin'  roun'  heah  terreckly  ter  see  de 
shape  o'  de  scraps  you  got  lef  f'om  Chris'mus 
dinner,  dee'd  spy  it  out  an'  set  it  up  'ginst  my 
c'a'cter  mighty  quick.  You  go  on  ter  baid,  Aleck, 
an'  ef  yer  git  lonesome  you  des  call  out, '  Cicely,' 
an'  I'll  'spon'  ter  yer,  'caze  I's  berwildered  an' 
'plexted  in  my  min'  much  as  you  is,  an'  I  ain't 
gwine  sleep  heavy.  Good-night,  an'  Gord  bless 
yer  !" 

"  Amen,"  said  the  old  man  as  he  blew  out  the 
candle,  and  before  many  minutes  a  sound  of  meas 
ured  breathing,  coming  from  both  rooms,  pro 
claimed  the  aged  pair  at  rest  in  that  happy  land 
of  youth  renewed,  of  losses  restored,  of  hopes  ful 
filled — the  land  of  dreams. 

Parson  Brown  was  duly  interviewed,  and  con 
curred  fully  in  Sister  Garrett's  idea  of  the  propri 
ety  of  a  formal  announcement,  in  the  presence  of 
the  congregation  and  of  the  parties  concerned,  of 
the  renewed  relations  of  the  old  people.  Indeed, 
he  was  quite  enthusiastic  in  his  delight  in  pros 
pect  of  the  novel  occasion,  as  well  as  in  congratu 
lations  to  the  soon  to  be  reunited.  The  old  couple 
expressed  some  solicitude  as  to  the  manner  of  pro 
ceeding,  to  which  he  reassuringly  replied  in  this 
wise  : 

"  Hab  no  reprehensioms,  my  deah  br'er  an'  sis 
ter  ;  jes  leave  ev'ything  ter  me.  Ain't  I'm  a 
preacher  ?  Ain't  I'm  de  shepherd  o'  de  flock  ?  I 


A   GOLDEN    WEDDING  29 

is  er  I  ain't,  one.  Ef  I  ain't,  I  better  ban'  in  my 
designation!  an'  clair  out,  an'  go  a-fishin ' ;  an'  ef 
I  is,  I  sboly  is  fittn  ter  conduc'  air  cer'mony  what- 
somever  what  mought  arise  outn  de  needs  an'  de 
desires  o'  my  flock.  Ain't  dat  so  ?" 

It  was  so.  So  said  Sister  Garrett,  and  so  reiter 
ated  Br'er  Tbormson's  nodding  bead. 

"  An'  as  fur  yo'  part,"  tbe  minister  continued — 
"  as  fur  yo'  part,  embellish  yo'se'ves  accordin'  ter 
de  dictates  o'  yo'  desires  an'  de  succumstances  o'  de 
'casiom,  an'  lookin'  neither  ter  de  right  ner  ter  de 
lef ',  walk  up  de  middle  island  o'  de  chu'ch  at  the 
'p'inted  hour,  an'  teck  yo'  stan',  widout  feah  an' 
widout  approach,  in  de  presence  of  a  waitin'  corn- 
gergatiom,  an'  I'll  gua'ntee  dat  ev'ything  shill  pass 
orf  ter  de  comfort  o'  yo'  hearts,  ter  de  'newin'  o' 
yo'  sperits,  ter  de  saters/actiom  o'  de  worl',  an' 
ter  de  glory  o'Gord." 

"  Amen  !"  said  Sister  Garrett. 

"  Amen  !"  fervently  echoed  Br'er  Thormson. 

On  Sabbath  morning  following  this,  Br'er  Brown 
announced  from  the  pulpit  that  at  five  o'clock  on 
that  same  afternoon,  immediately  after  the  closing 
exercises  of  Conference,  then  in  session,  there 
would  take  place  in  the  church  a  golden  wedding, 
to  which  all  were  cordially  invited.  This  was  all. 
He  refused  further  explanation,  but  laughingly 
bade  the  curious  "  come  and  see." 

Needless  to  say,  the  church  was  crowded  to 
overflowing,  for  curiosity  ran  high,  both  as  to  the 
individuals  concerned  and  the  exact  nature  of  the 


30  A   GOLDEN   WEDDING 

promised  ceremony.  The  expectant  interest  of 
the  waiting  congregation  proved  infectious,  and 
after  closing  of  Conference  the  dozen  or  more  of 
ministers  present  remained,  to  a  man,  curious  to 
witness  an  occasion  so  rare  as  a  golden  wedding. 

After  a  short  interval  of  some  disorder,  during 
which  ministers  and  people  engaged  in  social  con 
versation,  laughingly  surmising  as  to  whom  the 
bridal  party  should  be,  a  stir  at  the  door  an 
nounced  their  approach. 

Had  not  their  dress  labelled  them  as  the  heroes 
of  the  hour,  it  would  have  been  impossible,  so 
great  was  the  crowd,  for  them  to  have  made  their 
way  up  the  aisle.  The  throng,  pressing  to  right 
and  left,  gave  way,  however,  and  arm  in  arm  the 
old  couple,  obeying  orders,  passed  up  the  middle 
aisle  and  took  their  stand  before  the  pulpit. 

The  groom  wore  his  old  broadcloth  suit — the 
very  one,  by  the  way,  in  which  he  had  been  mar 
ried  to  this  same  woman  a  nameless  number  of 
years  ago. 

The  bride,  modestly  attired  in  an  old  white 
muslin,  might  have  escaped  special  notice  in  a 
crowd,  excepting  for  a  small  spray  of  natural 
orange  flowers  which  she  wore  upon  her  fore 
head. 

It  is  a  pity  to  have  to  write  it,  but  there  was  a 
titter  of  mirth,  ill  suppressed,  unworthy  the  dig 
nity  of  the  occasion  and  the  place,  as  the  old  pair 
tottered  up  the  aisle. 

Brother  Brown  had  stepped  down  before  the 


A   GOLDEN   WEDDING  31 

pulpit,  and  was  ready  to  receive  them.  Perceiv 
ing  instinctively  that  his  congregation  were  not 
in  touch  with  the  spirit  of  the  occasion,  he  won 
their  attention  and  deference  by  a  short  and  ear 
nest  prayer ;  then  lowering  his  voice,  addressed 
them  solemnly  as  follows  : 

"  My  deah  bredren  and  sistren  in  de  Lord,  you 
see  befo'  you  a  aged  couple,  bofe  o'  whom  an'  each 
one  o'  which  is  no  stranger  ter  you  all — Br'er 
Alexander  Thormson,  a  man  in  good  an'  reg'lar 
standin'  in  de  chu'ch,  an'  Sister  Cicely  Garrett, 
lakwisely  respected  and  respectable  'mongst  de 
sisterhood  fur  stiddy-goin'  piety.  It  is  a  fac'  well 
known  ter  dis  corngergatiom  dat  dese  two  pussons 
is  been  livin'  nex'  do'  ter  one-'n'er  fur  de  space  o' 
six  mont's  er  sech  a  matter,  save  an'  exceptin'  sech 
times  as  Sister  Garrett  is  been  livin'  out  at  ser 
vice;  an'  when  I  'form  you  o'  de  fac'  dat  dee 
claims  dat  dee  was  married  ter  one-'n'er  long  'fo' 
de  wah,  an'  'ain't  reconnize  one-'n'er  tell  now,  'tain't 
fur  you  ter  'spute  dey  words,  'caze  when  you  cas'es 
yo'  eyes  upon  'em  now,  as  dee  stan'  heah  to-day, 
you  can  easy  conceive  o'  de  fac'  dat  de  lan'marks 
by  which  dee  could  o'  been  reconnized  is  well-nigh 
washed  away  by  de  surgin'  o'  de  river-  o'  time. 
Dee  claims  dat  dee  was  j'ined  in  de  holy  instate  o' 
matrermony  in  de  ole  days,  time  dee  was  yong, 
an'  arter  meanderin'  roun'  de  worl',  eas'  an'  wes^' 
norf  an'  souf,  norfeas'  an'  norfwes,'  so  ter  speak, 
ter  all  de  p'ints  o'  de  cumpositiom,  dee  suddently 
reconnize  one-'n'er,  an'  now,  while  dee  ain't  a-ca'- 


32  A   GOLDEN  WEDDING 

culatin'  ter  ketch  up  wid  all  de  yeahs  what's  gone, 
dee  'low  dat  dee  crave  ter  come  back  ter  de  start- 
in'-p'int,  an'  start  fresh,  han'  in  han'.  By  de  bless'- 
in'  o'  Gord,  when  dee  skivered  one-'n'er,  dee  was 
bofe  free-handed  an'  free-hearted  ;  an'  now,  wid  a 
free  han',  dee  craves  ter  jine  han's  ag'in,an'  wid  a 
free  heart  dee  craves  ter  jine  hearts  once  mo' ;  an' 
ef  dey  hearts  is  bofe  turned  dat-a-way,  who  gwine 
say  de  word  ter  hender  'em  ?  Ef  anybordy  got  a 
word  agin  it,  let  'im  speak  now,  er  else,  as  de  Bible 
&&y,fo'everhoV  'is  peace" 

He  hesitated,  casting  his  eye  over  the  crowd, 
upon  which  the  silence  of  attentive  listening  had 
fallen. 

"  Hit's  true,"  he  resumed,"  dis  aged  couple  is 
well  on  in  de  yeahs,  an'  look  lak  dey  journey  is 
'mos'  done  ;  but  ef  dee  got  de  cour'ge  ter  teck 
han's  fur  de  las'  mile  o'  de  road,  'tain't  fur  de  laks 
o'  us  ter  rfi'scotir'ge  'em  !  An'  when  I  looks  at  dis 
o-ole  man,  ripe  in  yeahs,  as  de  Book  say,  an'  'cripit 
an'  f  ailin'  in  steps,  an'  I  know  dey's  a  woman  what's 
willin'  ter  stan'  up  an'  teck  de  spornserbility  o' 
follerin'  dat  man  clean  tell  'e  gits  ter  de  gate  o'  de 
kingdom,  I  bless  de  Lord,  an'  say  dat  woman  got 
cour'ge,  sho!  She  is  born  inter  de  light,  'caze  hit 
would  be  a  dark  journey  fur  de  onconverted!  An* 
when  my  eyes  pass  ter  de  bride — 'tain't  no  use  fur 
me  ter  specify — but  when  my  eye  pass  ter  de  bride 
what  Stan's  befo'  me  now,  a-leanin'  fon'ly  on  de 
arm  o'  de  groom  —  dat  same  groom  what  done 
picked  an'  choosed  'er  out,  away  back  yonder  time 


A    GOLDEN   WEDDING  33 

o'  de  fallin'  o'  de  stars — 'tain't  no  use  fur  me  ter 
specify,  but  I  raises  my  eyes  ter  Heaven  an'  I  say, 
Bless  Gord  fur  cour'ge  !  De  bride  ain't  show  no 
mo*  cour'ge  'n  de  groom  is.  Bless  Gord  fur  a 
brave  heart  an'  a  kin'  heart  an'  a  true  heart ! 

"  Wharfore"  he  continued,  " in  de  face  o'  de 
fac's,  an'  in  de  presence  o'  you  all,  I  pernounce 
'em  once  mo'  man  and  wife!" 

Turning  to  the  groom,  he  added,  lowering  his 
voice,  "  I  ain't  say  s'lute  yo'  bride,  'caze  I  know 
she  done  been  s'luted  on  de  former  'casiom  ;  how- 
somever,  ef  you  desires  ter  'new  yo'  salutatiom  'fo' 
de  worl',  you  is  free  ter  do  so." 

The  old  man  bent  his  head  and  kissed  the  lips 
of  his  old  wife.  This  was  taken  as  the  usual  sig 
nal  for  congratulations,  and  the  congregation  be 
gan  to  move  forward. 

With  a  wave  of  his  arm,  however,  the  minister 
indicated  that  the  golden  wedding  was  not  yet 
over. 

Placing  bride  and  groom  in  chairs  within  the 
chancel,  he  turned  again  to  the  congregation.  A 
change  of  tone  denoted  that  he  was  now  approach 
ing  a  new  branch  of  the  subject. 

"I  guv  out  dis  mawnm',"  he  began,  "dat  dis 
was  gwine  ter  be  a  golden  weddin\  an'  what  is  I 
mean,  my  bredren  ?  Is  I  mean  dat  de  preacher 
was  rich  ?  No,  you  know  I  ain't.  Is  I  mean  dat 
de  groom  was  rich  ?  No,  you  know  he  ain't.  Is  I 
mean  dat  de  bride  was  rich  ?  No,  you  know  she 
ain't.  Den  what  is  I  mean  ?  What  is  de  signifi- 
3 


34  A    GOLDEN    WEDDING 

catiom  of  a  golden  weddin'  ?  Hit's  de  cilebratiom 
o'  de  ma'yage  o'  two  pussons  what  have  de  cour'ge 
ter  stan'  up  'f o'  Gord  an'  de  worl',  arter  fifty  yeahs, 
an'  say,  'Amen  !  Dee  lived  through  it,  an'  dee 
gwine  stan'  up  ter  it !'  An'  ef  dee  sorry  dee  done  it, 
dee  nuver  lets  on.  Dat's  de  weddin'  part  ;  an'  de 
goF  part,  dat  mean  dat  ev'ybordy  'bleege  ter  fetch 
a  gol'  weddin'  present.  Now  fur  de  gol'  part.  In 
co'se  I  knows  you  ain't  able  ter  come  up  wid  pure 
gol',  but  look  ter  me  lak  dis  is  a  proud  occasiom 
ter  do  double  juty  wid  sech  as  you  is  got,  an'  you 
knows  yo'se'f  dat  small  change  is  de  Equivalent  o' 
gol'  ;  an'  now  I  tell  yer  what  I  gwine  perpose  ter 
do  :  I  'ain't  c'lected  no  sal'ry  fur  two  mont's,  an' 
ef  you'll  all  come  up  hearty,  yong  an'  ole,  wid  de 
widder's  mite,  an'  swell  de  collection!,  I  tell  yer 
what  I  gwine  do  :  I  gwine  'vide  up  even  wid 
de  bride  an'  groom,  an'  we'll  give  'em  a  golden 
weddin'  ter  de  best  o'  our  stability,  'caze  when  a 
pair  o'  ole  pussons  show  de  cour'ge  what  dee  done 
showed  ter-day,  hit's  on'y  right  ter  he'p  'em  'long 
an'  give  'em  a  start.  What  you  say  ?" 

"  Amen  !"  exclaimed  an  old  man  in  the  front 
pew. 

"Turn  up  de  hat !"  The  voice  came  from  the 
body  of  the  church  this  time. 

"  Ole  age  boun'  ter  ketch  us  all  'f  we  live,"  said 
another — a  white-haired  sister. 

It  was  pretty,  the  generous  spirit  of  this  most 
ingenuous  and  sympathetic  people. 

The  collection  was  the   largest  ever  known. 


A    GOLDEN    WEDDING  35 

When  it  was  over,  and  the  congregation,  every 
individual  of  which  had  contributed  something, 
had  again  come  to  order,  the  minister,  after  offer 
ing  a  short  thanksgiving  in  the  name  of  the  bene 
ficiaries,  announced  that  before  pronouncing  the 
benediction  he  desired  to  give  a  short  notice. 

"  De  bride  an'  de  groom,"  said  he,  "  wants  me 
ter  noterfy  dis  corngergatiom  dat  on  de  former  'ca- 
siom  when  dee  got  ma'yed,  dee  was  j'ined  onder 
de  name  o'  Smiff,  bein'  as  Br'er  Thormson  at  dat 
time  b'long  ter  de  Smiffs,  an'  seem  lak,  ef  dee 
goes  back  ag'in  fo'man  an'  wife,  dee  boun'  by  law, 
ef  dee  boun'  at  all,  ter  teck  up  dey  contrac'  onder 
de  same  entitlemint  dee  went  by  time  dee  'sumed 
de  fus  spornserbility,  an'  so  now  dee  gwine  leave 
de  name  o'  Thormson  an'  teck  de  name  o'  Smiff. 
Dat's  de  fus  p'int ;  an'  de  secon'  an*  las'  p'int  is 
dis :  Sis  Garrett,  jest  turned  Thormson,  and  hence- 
for'ard  Smiff,  she  got  a  grief  on  'er  heart  on  de 
'count  o'  a  yong  son  o'  hern  an'  Br'er  Smiff 's  what 
strayed  orf  time  o'  de  wah  and  'ain't  been  heerd  of 
no  mo',  an'  she  baigged  me  ter  be  sho  an'  read 
out  from  de  pulpit  ter-day  a  inscription!  o'  de 
yong  man,  an'  ter  spressify  de  fac'  dat  'is  pa 
an'  ma  crave  ter  meet  up  wid  'im  ag'in.  She  say 
he  was  name  Little  Joe,  Joe  Smiff  (she  don'  know 
ef  he  helt  ter  de  Smiff,  but  she  sho  he  cling  ter  de 
Joe)  ;  an'  fur  de  inscription!,  de  way  she  got  'im 
on  'er  min',  she  say  he  was  a  lakly  yong  man, 
black-complected  an'  tall  an'  slim,  an'  at  de  time 
o'  de  strayin'  orf  he  had  orn  a  blue  check  home- 


86  A    GOLDEN    WEDDING 

spun  suit,  an'  fur  face  an'  shape,  she  say  he  look 
jes  perzac'ly  lak  'is  pa,  an'  she  furthermo'  intreats 
dis  corngergatiora  dat  ef  dee  knows  any  yong  man 
name  Joe  (or  even  ain't  name  Joe,  ef  he  fulfil 
de  yether  inscriptioms)  what  'ain't  kep  up  wid 
'is  fambly,  ter  sen'  'im  roun'  tell  dee  zamine  'is 
p'ints  an'  see  ef  he  ain't  b'longs  ter  dem.  Dats 
de  way  Sister  Srniff  done  calt  it  out  ter  me,butef 
dis  yong  man  was  b'long  ter  me,  I  wouldn't  cramp 
de  search  by  no  sech  changeable  inscriptioms. 
Look  ter  me  lak  any  black-complected  yong  man, 
what  is  los'  'isse'f  f'om  'is  ma  an'  pa,  deserve  a 
hearin',  'caze,  when  a  pusson  stops  ter  consider, 
hit's  been  a  long  time  sence  de  'clarin'  o'  peace, 
an'  you  know  a  pusson  got  time  ter  fatten  an'  fall 
orf  in  all  dis  time,  an'  de  homespun  suit  —  yer 
kyant  fasten  dat  on  'im  no  mo',  'caze  he's  boun' 
ter  been  changed  'is  cloze  in  all  dese  yeahs — ef 
he's  fitt'n'  to  ketch  up  wid — an'  when  yer  come 
ter  lookin'  lak  'is  pa " — the  speaker  shook  his 
head  and  smiled — "  you  know  dat's  boun'  ter  be 
in  'is  mammy's  ricollectiom  :  you  an'  me  'd  nuver 
see  it,  'caze  no  yong  man  gwine  look  lak  Br'er 
Smiff  look  now,  not  speakin'  onrespectful  o'  de 
groom,  'caze  we  all  on  de  same  track  ;  but  now, 
on  de  consideratiorn  o'  dese  p'ints,  seem  ter  me  de 
name  o'  Smiff  '11  do  mo'  ter  ketch  up  wid  dis  way 
ward  son  dan  dese  changeable  inscriptioms ;  whar- 
fore,  I  charge  you,  in  de  name  o'  de  love  o'  yo' 
chillen,  ter  open  yo'  eyes  ter  see  an'  yo'  ears  ter 
heah,  an'  try  ter  fin'  dis  prodigums  son  fur  'em ! 


A    GOLDEN   WEDDING  37 

His  ma  an'  pa,  dee  say  dee  know  he's  safe,  livin' 
er  daid,  'caze  dee's  belt  'ira  up,  day  an'  night,  in 
de  arms  o'  faith,  close-t  ter  de  mercy-seat ;  but  yit, 
ef  he's  in  de  Ian'  o'  de  livin,'  dee  craves  ter  lay 
dey  mortal  eyes  on  'im  ag'in.  He  was  borned 
on  de  Morgan  plantation,  on  de  coas',  an'  was 
sol',  'long  wid  'is  mammy,  'fo'  de  wah,  ter  de 
Garretts,  o'  Bayou  Gros  Tete,  f'om  w'ich  place 
he  crost  over  ter  Placquemem,  an'  dat's  fur  as  dee 
knows." 

Turning  here  toward  the  ministers,  who  sat  in 
a  row  behind  the  pulpit,  he  would  have  invited 
one  of  them  to  pronounce  the  benediction  ;  but 
the  tallest  of  their  number,  known  as  Brother 
Lincoln,  had  risen,  and  unbidden  was  stepping 
forward.  He  was  a  black  man  of  fifty  or  there 
abouts,  conspicuously  handsome  and  of  command 
ing  presence,  a  delegate  from  one  of  the  upper 
parishes.  He  stepped  to  the  front,  as  if  to  ad 
dress  the  congregation,  hesitated,  cleared  his 
throat,  swallowed,  essayed  to  speak,  but  failed 
to  command  his  voice,  and  finally,  turning  sud 
denly,  approached  the  old  woman  Cicely,  and  with 
a  voice  broken  with  a  sob,  said,  "Mammy,  heah 
little  Joe." 

The  old  woman,  for  the  first  time  during  all 
the  trying  ceremony,  lost  her  self-control.  With 
a  shriek,  she  threw  herself  into  the  arms  of  her 
son,  whose  first  word  assured  her  of  his  identity. 

The  old  father  sobbed  aloud,  trembling  pite- 
ously,  but  soon  the  son  drew  his  mother's  with- 


88  A   GOLDEN    WEDDING 

ered  little  form  into  a  chair  beside  him,  next  the 
old  man,  and,  putting  his  strong  arm  around  him, 
drew  him  to  himself. 

There  was  not  a  dry  eye  in  the  church,  and 
not  a  few  of  the  more  emotional  fell  to  shouting. 
In  the  midst  of  the  wildest  excitement,  Brother 
Brown,  himself  weeping,  pronounced  a  faltering 
benediction,  but  the  congregation  were  too  much 
wrought  up  for  dismissal.  It  was  quite  dark 
when  at  last,  after  innumerable  hand  -  shakings 
and  many  embracings — father  and  mother  lean 
ing  each  on  an  arm  of  the  son — they  passed  out 
of  the  church. 

The  story  is  told,  and  yet,  before  we  leave 
them,  let  us  peep  in  upon  the  three  as  they  sit 
at  the  home  fireside  on  this  first  evening.  They 
are  in  the  mother's  room,  and  the  son  occupies 
the  centre  chair,  while  the  old  parents  on  either 
side  gaze  fondly  upon  him. 

"  Joe,"  says  the  old  man  at  length, "  wh-whar'd 
you  git  de  name  o' Lincolm,  anyhow?" 

"  Well,  yer  know,  daddy,  I  'ain't  meant  no  onri- 
spec'  ter  you,  but  I  'ain't  nuver  spect  ter  see  yer 
no  mo',  an'  you  'ain't  had  no  name  what  yer 
mought  say  was  borned  ter  yer  nohow,  an'  de 
name  o'  Smiff  look  like  hit  had  so  much  sporn- 
serbility  on  it  a'ready — look  like  hit's  done  stood 
fur  so  much  tell  hit  don't  stan'  fur  nuttn'  no  mo' 
— an*  I  was  a-castin'  'bout  fur  a  name  what  stood 
fur  freedom — an'  dat's  huccome  I  tuck  de  name 
o'  Lincolm  ;  but  in  co'se,  ef  you  sesso  —  you  <Je 


A  GOLDEN   WEDDING  39 

one  ter  seh  de  word — an'  ef  you  sesso  dat  I's 
boun'  ter  teck  de  name  o'  Smiff,  in  co'se  I'll — 
I'll—" 

"  No,  no !  I  'ain't  sesso !  What  you  say, 
Cicely?" 

"  Don't  pester  me  'bout  no  'titlemints  to-night, 
honey.  I  des  wants  ter  set  down  heah  an'  feas' 
my  eyes  on  my  baby!  Ain't 'yer  see  how  he 
favor  you,  Aleck?  Look  at  'is  haid.  How  yer 
keep  it  so  purty,  Joe  ?" 

"  I  jes  kyards  it  out  wid  a  kyardin'-comb,  same 
as  I  use  ter ;  but  I  ain't  'ten'  ter  it  much  myse'f. 
De-Dely,  she  mos'ly  combs  an'  trains  it." 

"  Who  Dely  ?"  asked  both  the  old  people  at 
once,  eagerly. 

He  laughed  with  some  embarrassment.  "  Wh- 
why,  Dely — she — she's  my  wife." 

"  Umh  !"  grunted  the  mother. 

"  I  sesso  too  !"  echoed  the  father. 

"  Y-yas — yas,  'm,  I  ma'yed  ;  yas,  sir,  I  ma'yed. 
Why,  mammy,  I's  gittn'  ole,  me  !  I  got — I  got — " 

"  What  you  got  ?"  asked  both  together,  again. 

"I  got — I  got — why,  mammy,  I  got  a  gal  big 
as  you  is — yas,  'm,  I  is." 

"  'Ain't  I  toF  yer  he  was  des  de  perzac'  image 
o'  you,  Aleck  ?  I  knowed  quick  as  my  back  was 
turned,  he  ma'y.  What  else  you  got,  Joe  ?" 

"  Who,  me  ?  I  got  a  whole  passel  o'  chillen — 
boys  an'  gals,  an'  an' — boys  an'  gals,  an'  boys 
an'—" 

"  Don't  say  it  over  no  mo',  Joe,  'less'n  yer  mean 


40  A    GOLDEN    WEDDING 

dey  ain't  no  een  ter  'em.  Go  orn  an'  tell  us  what 
dey  names.  Umh  !  Lord  have  mussy,  Aleck  ! 
You  an*  me's  'bout  a  dozen  gran'mammies  and 
gran'daddies,  de  way  Joe's  a-talkin'  now.  What's 
de  matter  wid  you,  Joe  ?  Why'n't  yer  talk,  an' 
tell  me  dey  names  ?" 

"  I's  tellin'  yer  fas'  as  I  kin,  mammy.  De  oles' 
one,  she  name  arter  you." 

The  old  woman  smiled.  "  Is  she  ?  Well,  well ! 
— name  Cicely,  eh  ?" 

Joe  scratched  his  head.  The  examination  was 
trying. 

"  No,  'm,  not  ezzac'ly.  Yer  see,  my  wife,  she 
name  Delia,  an'  you  name  Cicely,  an'  so  I  put  de 
two  names  togedder,  Cicely  an'  Delia,  an'  dat 
comes  out  Celia.  She  name  Celia." 

"  Mh — hm  !  Yas,  I  see.  Yer  named  'er  arter 
me,  an.'  calls  'er  Celia.  I's  glad  yer  splained  it 
out  ter  me  'fo'  yer  toF  me  de  name,  'caze  ef  I'd 
a-started  backwards  on  dat,  I  nuver  would  o' 
ketched  up  wid  it.  An'  de  boys,  what  dee 
names  ?" 

"  Well,  de  oles'  one,  he  name  Aberham,  to 
match  in  wid  de  Lincolm  ;  an'  den  startin'  dat 
a-way,  I  was  'bleege  ter  finish  de  set,  ,«o  arter 
Aberham  come  Isaac  an'  Jacob  j  den  come  Phil 
Sheridam  an'  Gineral  Grant,  an' —  " 

"Yer  'ain't  thought  'bout  namin'  none  ob  'em 
Alexander  de  Great,  is  yer?"  asked  the  old  man, 
timidly.  "  Dat's  my  name,  and  hit's  tooken  outn 
de  book;  I  heerd  ole  marster  sesso." 


A   GOLDEN    WEDDING  41 

"I  gwine  name  de  nex'  one  dat,  sho,  daddy. 
Hit  '11  glorify  de  whole  crowd  wid  granjer." 

But  why  try  to  follow  them  in  their  artless, 
original,  and  most  ingenuous  talk  ? 

It  was  late,  and  all  had  gradually  subsided  into 
silence,  when  the  old  man  spoke  again.  He  had 
been  for  some  time  looking  at  the  orange  branch 
which  still  stood  in  the  bottle  on  the  table.  "Cice 
ly,"  said  he,  "look  ter  me  like  maybe  dishere 
o'ange  in  de  bouquet  stood  fur  little  Joe." 

"  I  had  dat  in  my  min'  all  de  time,  Aleck ;  an' 
dat's  huccome  I  'ain't  bruck  it  orf ;  but  look  ter 
me  now  like  de  branch  'ain't  did  full  juty,  'less'n 
hit's  got  'bout  a  million  o'  little  o'anges  on  it,  ter 
stan'  fur  all  o'  little  Joe's  boys  an'  gals." 

"An'  I  bet  yer,  ef  yer  look  close-t,  you'll  fine 
'em,  too,"  said  the  old  man. 

And  it  was  true. 


c 


LAMENTATIONS  OF  JEREMIAH  JOHNSON 


LAMENTATIONS    OF   JEEEMIAH 
JOHNSON 

IT  was  a  hot  day  in  August.  Groups  of  cattle 
stood  about  in  shady  spots  chewing  their 
cuds,  gazing  out  with  mild  resignation  upon  the 
gleaming  field.  Horses  here  and  there  rolled  in 
the  grass  to  cool  themselves  ;  restless  hogs  moved 
from  one  mud  puddle  to  another,  grunting  a  pro 
test  against  the  rising  mercury  ;  noisy  hens,  set 
tling  themselves  about  in  gossipy  squads  under 
the  barnhouse  floor,  chattered  as  they  scratched 
down  into  the  substratum  of  moist  sand  for  cooler 
spots  for  their  feathered  breasts.  Such  was  the 
picture  in  Judge  Williams's  barnyard  on  this  par 
ticular  August  day. 

At  the  extreme  end  of  the  enclosure,  where  a 
little  branch  wound  its  way  beneath  the  shade  of 
a  sweet-gum  tree,  a  flock  of  puddle  ducks  floated 
about  in  the  shadow  ;  and  here,  on  the  grassy 
bank,  a  fat  black  woman  stood  before  a  row  of 
tubs,  washing.  Across  the  creek,  and  it  was  only 
a  step,  and  beyond  a  wild-rose  hedge,  quite  out 
of  sight,  perched  upon  the  top  crossing  of  a  rail- 
fence,  on  guard  over  the  judge's  family  washing, 
which  lay  bleaching  in  the  sun,  was  the  subject 


46        LAMENTATIONS    OF    JEREMIAH    JOHNSON 

of  this  sketch —Lamentations  of  Jeremiah  John 
son. 

Out  in  the  full  glare  of  the  August  sun  he  sat, 
with  head  sunburned  and  bare.  He  was  black, 
tall,  lank,  and — unpretty,  to  put  it  mildly  ;  and 
he  wore  to-day  a  single  garment  which  partly 
covered,  but  did  not  ornament,  his  homely  person. 
A  yellow  calico  dress,  buttoned  (or  rather  un 
buttoned)  behind,  and  caught  by  a  rusty  pin  mid 
way  between  neck  and  waist^  boasted  a  long  skirt 
which  fell  nearly  to  his  feet  when  he  stood,  but 
now,  lifted  by  his  projecting  knees,  it  fell  in 
foliated  curves,  from  which  the  slender  black  legs 
dangled  as  dark  stamens  project  from  the  yellow 
calyx  of  the  marsh-lily. 

Lamentations  was  now  twelve  years  old,  and  yet, 
although  he  was  the  only  child  of  his  mother,  he 
had  never  possessed  a  masculine  garment  of  any 
description.  He  was  the  last  and  only  survivor 
of  a  family  of  ten  children,  and  as  the  others 
had  all  been  daughters,  who  had  died  at  va 
rious  ages  from  infancy  up  to  fifteen  years, 
there  were  feminine  garments  of  assorted  sizes 
awaiting  him  at  his  birth,  from  the  guinea-blue 
baby-frocks  to  the  large  dresses  of  homespun 
which  lay  folded  away  in  his  mother's  press,  an 
inheritance  into  which  he  was  slowly  and  sure 
ly  growing,  and  from  which  he  would  fain 
have  held  back,  if  there  had  been  any  relief 
at  the  other  end  ;  but  Lamentations  saw  that 
the  only  way  out  of  this  dilemma  was  through 


LAMENTATIONS    OF    JEREMIAH    JOHNSON        47 

it,  and  so,  if  be  prayed  at  all,  he  prayed  to 
grow. 

"  Ef  I  could  jes  grow  past  dem  gal  frocks,  I'd 
be  willin'  ter  die  de  nex'  minute,  'caze  den  I 
could  die  like  what  I  is,  an'  Aspect  myself  as  I 
on'y  kin  'spect  myself  in  breeches  !  I  ain't  nuver 
gwine  ter  git  no  ambitioms  nor  no  mannishness 
s'long's  I  got  ter  roam  roun'  in  dese  heah  yaller- 
buff  gal  cloe's  !" 

In  this  fashion  Lamentations  was  wont  to  give 
vent  to  his  feelings  on  the  subject  of  his  attire  ; 
but  he  protested  secretly,  as  he  found  himself  the 
worse  always  for  any  open  rebellion,  his  mother 
often  beating  him,  and  declaring  that  he  was 
"dat  proud  dat  he  was  a  reg'lar  ole  maid,"  and 
that  "  what  was  good  enough  for  the  angels  in 
Heab'n  was  good  enough  for  him."  This  allusion 
to  his  departed  sisters  generally  worked  her  up 
to  the  whipping  point,  and  so  Lamentations  kept 
a  discreet  silence,  though  he  rebelled  in  secret. 

Lamentations'  parents,  Antony  and  Priscilla, 
had  been  a  worldly  pair  in  their  youth,  and  An 
tony  regarded  the  birth  and  death  of  nine  daugh 
ters  consecutively  as  a  visitation  of  Providence 
for  their  early  sins. 

"  It  shorely  is  a  visitation!,  an'  a  double  visita- 
tiom,"  he  had  lamented.  "  Fust  an'  fo'most,  de 
bare  fac'  o'  havin'  nine  gals  han'-runnin'  is  a  visi- 
tatiom ;  an'  secon'  and  hin'most,  de  losin'  ob  'em 
arter  you  is  got  'em  is  a  double  correction!  wid 
de  scourgin'  rod." 


48        LAMENTATIONS   OP  JEREMIAH   JOHNSON 

One  evening  Antony  and  Priscilla  sat  inside 
their  cabin  door.  It  was  Sunday,  and  they  had 
been  to  meeting.  On  the  Sunday  before,  they 
had  buried  their  last  child,  the  ninth. 

The  sun  was  setting  behind  the  hill,  and  cast 
ing  a  last  ray  over  the  little  cemetery  at  its  foot, 
brought  into  clear  view  the  row  of  graves  that 
held  the  records  of  their  many  losses. 

Antony  gazed  intently  at  them  for  some  time. 
Finally  he  said  :  "P'cilla,  I  b'lieve  dat  the  visi- 
tatiom's  done  finished  !  I  don't  b'lieve  Gord's 
gwine  ter  give  an'  teck  no  mo'  gals !" 

"Huccome  you  ca'culatin'  so  free,  I  like  ter 
know?"  said  his  wife. 

"  Well,  Ps  been  obserbin',  an'  a-speculatin' ;  an' 
a-settin'  heah  a-studyin',  I's  come  ter  dis  conclu- 
siom — " 

"  What  conclusion!  is  you  come  ter,  Antony  ?" 

"  I  come  ter  dis  conclusion! — dat  nine  am  de 
fatal  figgur.  Now  you  jes  lis'n  ter  me  !  Look 
at  de  signs  o'  de  nines  !" 

"I  knows  de  signs  o'  de  nines,"  interrupted 
Priscilla. 

"  What  signs  you  know  ?" 

"  G'way  f'om  heah,  Antony  !  You  reckin  'caze 
I  ain't  learned  in  the  books  dat  I  'ain't  got  no 
education! !  Even  a  yo'ng  kitten,  what  is  got  de 
leastest  sense  in  all  creatiom,  is  got  sense  enough 
not  ter  try  ter  open  hits  eyes  on  dis  sinful  worl' 
befo'  de  nine  days  o'  darkness  is  out." 

"  '  De  nine  days  o'  darkness  !'    Yer  jes  struck 


LAMENTATIONS    OF    JEREMIAH    JOHNSON          49 

it  right  dar,  P'cilla.  Now  we's  all  jes  de  same  as 
new-borned  kittens  befo'  Gord.  In  fac'  we  ain't 
'spornserble  fur  not  beirf  kittens,  an'  new-born,  an' 
blins  at  dat.  Now,  jes  fur  de  sake  o'  de  argimen- 
tatiom  o'  de  subjec',  let's  us  supposin'  dat  all  de 
worP  is  new-borned  kittens,  den  it  toilers,  in 
co'se,  dat  all  de  worP  is  borned  bline,  which  is  de 
case,  bein'  borned  in  a  state  o'  sin  an  mizry.  Ain't 
dat  so  ?" 

"You  goes  so  fas'  I  kyan't  keep  up  wid  yer, 
Antony.  Say  all  dat  ag'in.  I  ain't  a-gwine  ter 
give  in  ter  nut'n'  what  mecks  me  out  no  varmint, 
'less'n  I  sees  de  proof,  ef  you  is  willin'  ter  argify 
yo'se'f  inter  a  torm-cat." 

"  Hush,  P'cilla.  You's  a-runnin'  away  wid  dis 
subjec'  jes  de  same's  a  cat  runs  away  wid  a 
mouse.  Now  you  lis'n  ter  n_e,  'spornserble,  not 
fur  de  callin'  o'  no  names,  which  I  ain't  a-doin', 
but  fur  de  sake  o'  de  substantiation!  o'  de  proof." 

"  Substantiation  of  the  proof "  was  too  much 
for  Priscilla.  The  words  were  well  chosen,  and 
gained  her  respectful  attention,  while  Antony 
slowly  repeated  his  argument,  and  in  a  moment 
she  had  agreed  that  all  men  were  "  jes  de  same 
a?  new-borned  kittens  befo'  Gord." 

"Well,"  said  Antony,  "  dat's  a  fixed  fac'. 
Now,  ef  we's  de  same  as  new-borned  kittens, 
don't  you  see  dat  we's  got  ter  go  froo  our  nine 
days  o'  darkness  befo'  we  comes  out  in  de  light?" 

Priscilla  saw  it. 

"Well,  now,  ain't  de  losin'  of  a  baby,  even 
4 


50        LAMENTATIONS    OF   JEREMIAH   JOHNSON 

ef  'tis  a  gal  baby — ain't  dat  a  day  o'  dark 
ness  ?" 

"  Dat's  so,"  said  Priscilla. 

"  An'  ain't  a-losin'  nine  ob  'em  goin'  froo  nine 
days  o'  darkness  ?" 

Priscilla  raised  up  her  face  and  assented  respect 
fully.  She  was  convinced. 

"  Now,  look  a  -  heah  ! "  Antony  continued. 
"  We's  done  passed  froo  de  darkness,  an'  my  b'lief 
is  dat  Gord's  gwine  ter  raise  de  visitatiom  an' 
show  us  de  light — dat  is,  ef  we  ac's  'spornserble." 

"Antony!" 

"  What  yer  want,  P'cilla  ?" 

Priscilla  eyed  him  askance  as  she  said,  "  You 
talks  like  you's  gitt'n'  'ligion  !" 

"  I  ain't  a-sayin'  I's  gitt'n'  'ligion,  P'cilla,  but 
I's  a-speakin'  f'om  de  innermos'nesses  ob  my 
heart." 

"  Antony !" 

"  What  yer  want,  P'cilla  !" 

His  wife  smiled  faintly  as  she  replied,  "  De 
time  I'll  b'lieve  you's  got  'ligion  '11  be  de  time 
yer  gits  de  spring-chicken  honger  an'  stays  in  de 
baid  all  night  an'  nuver  bodders  'long  o'  no  hain- 
rooses  !" 

Antony  did  not  join  in  the  laugh  that  followed 
this,  but  said,  seriously  :  "  You  is  a  awful  game- 
maker,  P'cilla,  an'  I  ain't  a-denyin'  dat  I's  gi'n 
yer  plenty  o'  'casion  ter  meek  game  o'  me.  But 
look  heah  !" 

He  rose  slowly  from  his  chair,  and,  pointing  to 


LAMENTATIONS    OF   JEKEMIAH    JOHNSON        51 

the  little  row  of  graves,  now  barely  visible  in  the 
approaching  twilight,  he  said  :  "  Look  a-heah  1 
A-standin'  heah  to-night,  a-p'intin'  ter  dat  row  o' 
gal  graves  on  de  hill-side  yonder,  each  one  ob  'em 
which  holds  a  sign  an'  a  symbol  ob  a  double  visi- 
tatiom,  in  de  givin'  an'  de  teckin'  ob  a  gal  chile,  I 
stan'  up  an'  say  befo'  Gord,  dat  ef  He  holps  me, 
I's  a-gwine  ter  ac'  'spornserble  an'  opright,  befo' 
anudder  nine  graves  gits  a  start  on  us,  becaze 
Gord  don't  do  nutV  by  halves,  an'  ef  He's  started 
a-chastisin'  us  by  de  fatal  nines,  He  ain't  a-gwine 
ter  back  down  on  it  !" 

Priscilla  glanced  toward  the  row  of  graves  and 
heaved  a  deep  sigh.     Then,  slowly  turning  from 
her  husband,  she  opened  the  door  of  a  safe  at  her 
side,  and  taking  from  it  a  tin  plate  of  cold  bacon 
and 'greens,  and  reseating  herself  with  it  on  her 
lap,  she   began    to    eat  them,  raising  the  dark 
green  shreds  with  her  fingers  into  the  air  above 
her  head,  and   slowly  lowering   them  into   her 
capacious  mouth.      Priscilla  was   of   the   earth, 
earthy.     She  had  mourned  heartily  and  boister 
ously  over  each  of  her  nine  bereavements,  but  her 
bosom  was  not  the  home  of  sorrow,  and  when  a 
grief  fell  into  it,  it  was  as  an  acid  falling  into  an 
alkali.     The  effect  was  effervescent,  evanescent, 
and  when  once  the  bubbling  ceased,  the  same  acid 
could  not  stir  it  again. 

She  grew  serious  at  mention  of  her  dead  chil 
dren,  and  ate  the  flabby  garlands  of  greens  in 
silence,  chewing  meditatively,  and  ruminat- 


52          LAMENTATIONS    OF    JEREMIAH    JOHNSON 

ing  almost  sadly  over  each  mouthful  before 
elevating  another  for  inspection  and  consump 
tion. 

It  was  in  the  spring  following  this  that  to  the 
house  of  Antony  and  Priscilla  came  a  little  son. 
Antony  was  in  the  field  "  chopping  cotton  "  when 
the  news  came  to  him.  He  behaved  with  strange 
excitement  on  this  occasion,  dropping  his  hoe 
as  he  exclaimed :  "  De  visitatiom's  done  h'isted  J 
Glory  be  to  Gord  !"  and  on  the  Sunday  following 
he  did  what,  notwithstanding  his  reformed  life, 
he  had  never  done  before.  He  made  a  public  pro 
fession  of  religion,  and,  in  the  language  of  Broth 
er  Williamson,  the  officiating  minister,  "  Cornse- 
crated  hissef  and  all  o'  hisn  to  de  service  o'  de 
Lord  !" 

Antony  expressed  great  concern  as  to  the  selec 
tion  of  a  name  for  his  son.  It  must  be  a  Bible 
name — a  name  that  should  be  an  inspiration  to 
the  lad  as  well  as  a  certificate  of  his  father's 
piety. 

Brother  Williamson   suggested  the   names  of 
the  gospels,  but  Antony  objected.    Matthews  and 
Johns  were  disgracing  the  saints  all  over  the  coun 
try   now,  "and,"  he   contended,  "John  Johnson 
wouldn't  do  nohow,  'caze  hit  soun's  like  a  pusson's 
a-stammerin',  an'  jes  as  sho  as  I'd  call  John  John 
son,  I'd  git  ter  Johnin'  an'  couldn't   stop.     No, 
don't  gimme  none  o'  dem  stutterin'  names !" 
"  How  'bout  Mark  !"  ventured  Williamson. 
"Mark — Mark,"  he  repeated,   reflectively;  "a 


LAMENTATIONS    OF    JEKEMIAH    JOHNSON          53 

black  Mark?  Don't  you  know,  Brer  Williamson, 
dat  a  black  mark  nuver  stan's  for  no  good  ?" 

"Dat's  so — lookin'  at  it  dat-a-way.  Dat's  so. 
Well,  what  yer  say  ter  Luke?" 

"No,  sir  !"  he  quickly  replied.  "'Ain't  you  jes 
preached  las'  Sunday  ag'in  Lukewarm  Christians? 
Dat  won't  do." 

Williamson  hesitated ;  then,  counting  on  his 
fingers,  he  slowly  said,  "  Matthew,  Mark,  Luke, 
John,  Acts  —  Acts  is  a  good  name,  Brer  John 
son  ;  s'posin'  yer  names  his  name  Acts  ?" 

Antony  hesitated.  There  was  a  suggestion  of 
energy  in  the  name — even  a  hint  of  good  works; 
still,  he  did  not  seem  quite  to  like  it.  Finally  he 
said:  "I  did  know  a  man  once-t  what  named  his 
boy  Ac's,  but  he  come  ter  it  reg'lar.  He  had  all 
o'  Ac's's  pardners  hand-runnin' — Maffew,  Mark, 
Luke,  and  John;  an'  hit  seems  ter  rne  like  goin' 
backward,  somehow — like  turnin'  de  'postles  cat- 
awarmosed,  an'  treatin'  'em  onrespecful,  ter  name 
de  fust  boy  Ac's.  De  fac'  is,  Brer  Williamson, 
hit  looks  ter  me  kind  o'  deceitful  ter  do  dat — 
hit's  like  sneaking  up  berhindt  'em  like,  an'  Maf- 
few  an'  Mark  an'  Luke  an'  John  would  somehow 
be  slighted! — an'  besides,  it  don't  seem  as  I's 
ezzacly  got  a  right  ter  fetch  Ac's  in  heah,  ber 
hindt  a  whole  passel  o'  Callines  an'  M'rias  an' 
sech.  No;  T  wants  ter  fine  a  name  what  stan's  ter 
hitse'f  like — what  I  could  sort  o'  teck  liberties 
wid  movin'  outn  its  place,  one  dat  don't  b'longs 
ter  no  crowd." 


54          LAMENTATIONS    OF   JEREMIAH    JOHNSON 

The  preacher  ventured  several  other  sugges 
tions,  but  none  seemed  to  suit. 

Priscilla,  with  wifely  devotion,  wished  to  call 
the  boy  Antony,  but  to  this  he  would  not  lis 
ten. 

"No,  no,"  he  protested;  "  my  name  ain't  clean 
enough.  Hit's  been  mixed  up  wid  too  much  dev- 
\\mint  ter  fit  dat  little  angel  o'  light.  Ef  I  kin 
wuck  off  all  de  stains  what's  on  it  by  de  time  he's 
obleeged  ter  ca'y  de  Johnson  part  o'  it  out  inter 
de  worP,  I'll  praise  Gord." 

The  babe  was  nameless  for  a  month. 

Finally,  one  Sunday,  Antony  came  home  from 
church  jubilant.  He  had  found  the  name  to  suit 
his  fancy.  The  preacher  had  read  it  out  of  the 
Bible,  and  it  had  a  sound  of  dignity  that  pleased 
him.  It  seemed  to  be  filled  with  exhortation  and 
warning  and  spirituality.  It  was  "  Lamentations 
of  Jeremiah." 

The  little  babe  winced  visibly  when,  on  the 
next  Sabbath,  the  water  of  baptism  was  sprinkled 
on  his  unconscious  head,  and  he  became,  whether 
he  willed  it  or  no,  "  Lamentations  of  Jeremiah 
Johnson." 

No  one  ever  had  occasion  to  doubt  the  sincer 
ity  of  Antony's  conversion.  It  was  a  quiet  facing 
about,  an  unemotional  turning  from  sinful  ways 
to  a  pure  life.  At  first,  the  good  people  in  the 
church  were  hardly  satisfied  with  the  "speritual 
evidences"  in  his  case.  They  were  disappointed. 
The  man  who  had  been  the  best  dancer  of  the 


LAMENTATIONS    OF    JEREMIAH    JOHNSON          55 

"double  twis',"  and  could  beat  every  man  in  the 
county  "  cutting  the  pigeon  wing,"  would  certain 
ly  throw  some  of  this  muscular  vigor  into  the  new 
life,  and  they  had  looked  for  great  gymnastic 
spiritual  manifestations,  so  to  speak,  in  his  con 
version. 

Perhaps  religion  in  his  case  would  even  hallow 
the  " pigeon  wing,"  and  sanctify  the  "double  twis' " 
— who  knew  ?  If  Antony  had  worn  a  dazed  vis 
age  and  danced  down  the  middle  aisle  in  an  ex 
travagant  "  fling,"  his  would  have  been  considered 
a  more  pronounced  conversion.  One  of  the  broth 
ers  even  whispered  his  disappointment  in  church 
to  a  neighbor.  "  I  shorely  is  disapp'inted,"  he 
said.  "  I  'lowed  dat  maybe  Brer  Johnson  would 
sort  o'  stipulate  inter  grace."  But  Brer  Johnson 
did  not  "  skipulate."  There  was  nothing  sensa 
tional  about  his  case. 

For  eleven  years  Antony  was  a  quiet,  consistent 
Christian  member  of  Chinquepin  Chapel,  and  it  is 
safe  to  say  that  the  light  of  his  quiet  life  did 
more  to  reform  the  morals  of  the  congregation 
and  to  raise  the  standard  of  personal  piety  among 
them  than  did  all  the  shouting  and  exhorting  done 
in  the  chapel  during  that  time,  and  his  death,  oc 
curring  when  Lamentations  was  eleven  years  old, 
produced  a  profound  sensation.  It  was  as  the 
last  years  of  his  life  had  been — full  of  peace  and 
a  holy  trust.  The  only  time  he  was  ever  known 
to  shout  was  with  his  passing  breath,  when,  hav 
ing  invoked  God's  blessing  on  his  little  son,  his 


56          LAMENTATIONS    OF   JEBEMIAH    JOHNSON 

spirit  passed  out  through  a  smile  on  his  lips,  and 
he  met  the  grim  messenger  with  a  clear  though 
faint  "  Praise  Gord  !" 

After  Antony's  death,  Priscilla  gave  up  "  crap 
raisin'"  and  moved  to  town.  She  was  a  typi« 
cal  negro — improvident,  emotional,  gossipy,  kind- 
hearted,  high-tempered,  vain,  dishonest,  idle,  work 
ing  two  or  three  days  in  each  week  and  "res'n* 
up  "  the  remainder,  with  always  a  healthy  appe 
tite  and  a  "mizry  in  de  bre's'." 

She  had  professed  conversion  several  times,  and 
as  often  become  a  backslider.  The  tips  of  her  fin 
gers  led  her  easily  into  sin  by  fastening  themselves 
to  her  neighbors'  goods,  but  this  never  brought 
her  into  open  shame,  as  did  the  tips  of  her  toes, 
for  Priscilla  was  an  inveterate  dancer,  and  if  a  re 
vival  or  camp-meeting  drew  her  into  the  church, 
it  took  only  a  string  band  or  a  fiddle  to  work  her 
ruin.  Indeed,  it  became  a  byword  that  "Sister 
Johnson  shouted  all  winter  and  danced  out  o' 
grace  at  every  May-day  picnic." 

Such  was  Lamentations'  mother.  During  the 
year  of  her  widowhood,  as  a  visible  means  of 
support,  she  had  done  the  family  washing  for 
Judge  Williams  and  his  wife;  and  though  the 
pay  for  so  small  an  amount  of  work  was  pro 
portionally  small,  there  were  perquisites  in  the 
shape  of  a  cabin  rent  free,  "cold  victuals,"  and 
sundry  opportunities  for  exercising  the  weakness 
of  her  finger-tips,  which  made  the  situation  a  de 
sirable  one.  Her  cabin — assigned  to  her  on  ac- 


LAMENTATIONS    OF    JEREMIAH    JOHNSON  57 

count  of  its  proximity  to  the  creek  from  which 
she  washed  —  stood  also  conveniently  near  the 
hen-house  on  one  side  and  the  vegetable  garden 
on  the  other,  while  its  one  window  opened  over 
that  dazzling,  cooling,  glowing,  seductive  tempta 
tion  to  the  flesh — the  watermelon  patch ;  and  so, 
when  Priscilla  said  that  "  Gord  had  been  good 
to  her,  and  she  had  no  'casion  to  complain,"  she 
meant  it. 

Lamentations,  as  we  have  said,  was  twelve  years 
old  when  this  story  begins.  Tall,  black,  unkempt, 
arrayed  in  ill-fitting  frocks,  with  a  falsetto  voice 
and  a  stammering  tongue,  he  was  not  a  thing  of 
beauty;  neither  was  he  counted  a  joy,  but  rather 
a  sorrow,  in  the  village  of  Washington,  Arkansas, 
in  which  he  lived.  If  suspicion  of  any  sort  fell 
upon  him,  his  appearance  went  far  toward  its 
confirmation,  not  only  on  account  of  his  ugliness 
of  person,  but  his  peculiar  dress  gave  him  a  sort 
of  nondescript  character,  and  seemed  to  brand 
him  as  an  evil  spirit. 

Priscilla's  one  maternal  act  had  been  sending 
him  to  school.  The  four  months  of  tuition  each 
year  had  been  enough  to  make  him  a  fair  scholar, 
as  scholarship  went  in  the  negro  free  school  of 
Washington.  His  education  was  the  one  thing 
about  him  that  his  mother  respected. 

It  was  vacation  now. 

As  he  sat  on  guard  to-day  in  the  crotch  of  the 
fence,  he  seemed  to  fall  into  deep  meditation. 
Ever  and  anon  he  cast  an  anxious  glance  in  the 


58          LAMENTATIONS    OF    JEREMIAH    JOHNSON 

direction  of  the  sweet-gum  tree,  where,  though 
out  of  sight,  he  knew  his  mother  stood;  then 
he  would  gaze  wistfully  at  a  pair  of  trousers 
which  lay  bleaching  on  the  grass.  He  was  con 
templating  doing  something  which  he  feared  to 
attempt. 

"Ef  mammy  was  on'y  a-washin'  on  de  wash- 
boa'd,  'stid  o'  renchin'  an'  a-starchin',  I  could  lis'en 
an'  keep  up  wid  her,"  he  said.  Finally,  however, 
the  temptation  became  too  great.  He  slid  quick 
ly  down  from  the  fence,  dropped  the  yellow  dress 
on  the  ground,  and  proceeded  hastily  to  array 
himself  in  the  judge's  pantaloons,  suspending 
them  from  the  shoulders  by  means  of  the  twine 
which  he  took  from  his  whip. 

As  the  old  judge  was  a  short  and  over-fat  man, 
the  trousers  were  not  much  in  the  way  of  a  fit. 
He  now  selected  a  vest  from  the  ground,  slipped 
his  long  black  arms  through  the  capacious  arm- 
holes,  buttoned  it  down  the  front,  and,  with  his 
thumbs  stuck  into  the  pockets,  began  to  strut  up 
and  down,  surveying  himself  with  evident  pride. 
O,  for  a  mirror  !  He  longed  to  behold  himself  in 
masculine  attire.  Glancing  at  the  sun,  he  shifted 
his  position,  trying  to  see  his  own  shadow,  but  the 
midday  hour  denied  him  even  this  unsubstan 
tial  gratification  ;  and  so,  satisfying  himself  with 
such  a  survey  as  he  could  get  of  his  outline,  he 
resumed  his  promenade,  and  began  a  half-audible 
soliloquy :  "  Dey  ain't  no  use  o'  talkin' !  mannish- 
ness  comes  wid  breeches !  Dey  sort  o'  kin.  I 


LAMENTATIONS    OF   JEKEMIAH    JOHNSON          59 

feels  like  I  mought  be  de  jedge  dis  minute.  I 
shorely  could  'spect  myself  in  dese  heah  breeches, 
even  ef  dey  warn't  no  tighter'n  dese,  jes  so  dey 
had  laigs,  an'  was  s'pendered  up  wid  galluses  !  I 
could  ac'  like  a  genterman  ;  an'  as  I  is,  I  ain't 
nothin'  an'  nobody.  Ef  I  jes  had  sech  as  dese,  I 
wouldn't  be  obleeged  ter  be  a-spittin'  terbacker 
an'  a-sayin'  cuss-words  jes  ter  show  what  I  is,  like 
I  does.  I  mought  have  some  dignificatioms  an' 
mannerficatioms  an' — " 

His  soliloquy  was  brought  to  a  sudden  close 
by  a  loud  scream  from  the  direction  of  the  sweet- 
gum  tree.  It  was  his  mother's  voice.  Lamenta 
tions  had  become  so  absorbed  in  self-contempla 
tion  that  a  drove  of  hogs  had  passed  behind  him 
unobserved,  leaving  their  footprints  on  the  bleach 
ing  clothes. 

Their  only  exit  lay  at  the  end  of  the  Cherokee 
hedge,  a  point  near  Priscilla,  and  she  had  taken  the 
alarm.  She  knew  that  their  familiar  porcine  hie 
roglyphs  decorated  her  precious  week's  washing. 
At  the  sound  of  her  voice,  Lamentations  turned 
and  saw  it  all.  He  was  terror-stricken.  His  first 
impulse  was  to  get  out  of  the  judge's  clothing, 
but  haste  embarrassed  his  motions.  The  twine 
"  galluses  "  were  knotted. 

Finally,  just  as  his  mother  emerged  from  be 
hind  the  hedge,  the  judge's  apparel  fell  to  the 
ground,  and  he  stood  before  her  trembling  —  a 
pitiful  nude  statue  of  terror.  His  yellow  dress 
lay  just  behind  him.  To  take  a  backward  step 


60         LAMENTATIONS    OF    JEEEMIAH    JOHNSON 

would  expose  the  judge's  trousers.  Nearer  and 
nearer  came  his  mother;  still  Lamentations  moved 
not,  neither  did  he  speak.  Finally  Priscilla  came 
to  a  halt,  and  looking  at  him  in  mingled  anger 
and  alarm,  she  began  : 

"Fur  Gord's  sake,  what  is  you  a-doin',  a-stand- 
in'  up  heah  in  yo'  skin,  Lamentations  o'  Jeremiah 
Johnson  ?" 

Lamentations  began  to  cry.  This  indication  of 
natural  emotion  fanned  the  flame  of  her  ire,  and 
she  continued  : 

"  You  is  de  onsettledes',  wo-'countes',  beatenes', 
rapscalliones'  nigger  dat  ever  holped  a  po'  sin 
ner  ter  backslide  !  You  'ain't  got  no  mo'  sperit 
'n  a  suck-aig  dorg  !  What  in  kingdom  come 
is  you  been  doin' !"  She  approached  a  step  near 
er.  "Is  you  gwine  ter  speak,  you  black  buz 
zard?" 

Lamentations  was  too  much  frightened  to  speak. 
He  made  a  desperate  leap  in  the  direction  of  the 
yellow  dress.  Priscilla,  thinking  he  was  trying 
to  escape,  started  and  caught  him.  One  of  his 
feet  had  caught  in  the  twine,  and  the  judge's 
nether  garments  trailed  after  him,  becoming  more 
and  more  entangled  about  his  legs  as  he  danced 
around  his  mother,  while  she  laid  on  blows  thick 
and  fast.  Oh,  the  lamentations  of  Lamentations  ! 
As  the  pantaloons,  flying  around,  brought  their 
own  explanation,  she  became  more  and  more  ex 
cited,  and  beat  him  without  mercy.  It  made  no 
difference  which  way  he  turned.  Every  position 


LAMENTATIONS   OF   JEKEMIAH   JOHNSON         61 

presented  a  bare  suggestion  for  another  blow,  and 
it  came  every  time. 

Whether  this  beating  provoked  him  to  wrath, 
or  his  brief  experience  in  male  apparel  wrought 
an  inspiration,  we  cannot  say ;  but  a  change  came 
over  Lamentations  from  this  time.  He  became 
desperate,  and  various  depredations  on  hen-roosts 
and  melon-patches,  even  beyond  the  judge's  do 
main,  were  laid  at  his  door.  The  wearer  of  the 
yellow  dress  became  a  familiar  figure  in  court, 
but  somehow  he  always  managed  to  escape  con 
viction.  Finally,  however,  justice  sought  and 
found  him  at  home. 

A  pair  of  young  Plymouth  Rock  hens  disap 
peared  one  night  from  the  roost,  and  suspicion, 
confirmed  by  fresh  footprints  between  the  cabin 
and  hen-house,  and  feathers  corresponding  with 
those  of  the  missing  chickens  hidden  in  Priscilla's 
room,  fell  on  the  occupants  of  the  cabin. 

The  footprints  were  Lamentations',  but  his 
mother  had  hidden  the  feathers. 

.  On  inquiry,  it  transpired  that,  the  night  before, 
Priscilla  had  entertained  a  crowd  of  her  church 
people  on  what  she  had  been  pleased  to  call 
"tucky-hain."  Now  there  were  no  turkey-hens 
on  the  premises,  and  two  fine  Plymouth  Rocks, 
nearly  as  large,  were  missing.  Circumstantial  evi 
dence  against  them  was  strong. 

The  judge  had  mother  and  son  arrested  and 
brought  into  court — his  own  court. 

Priscilla  was  called  up  first.     She  unblushingly 


62          LAMENTATIONS    OP   JEKEMIAH   JOHNSON 

denied  the  accusation  in  toto,  even  weeping  over 
the  contemplation  of  such  ingratitude  as  so  base  a 
theft  would  show.  She  dwelt  at  length  upon  the 
kindnesses  they  daily  received  from  the  judge's 
family,  and  wept  afresh  over  the  sad  lot  of  "  a  po' 
widderless  'oman  an'  a  orphanless  boy,  wid  nobody 
ter  pertect  'em  'less'n  it  was  de  jedge,  what  knowed 
her  po'  daid  husband,"  etc.  Finally  she  swore 
to  the  truth  of  all  this,  and  Lamentations  was 
called. 

A  murmur  of  suppressed  mirth  ran  through  the 
court  as  the  tall,  gaunt  wearer  of  a  white  swiss 
dress  stalked  gawkily  upon  the  stand.  Priscilla 
meant  that  her  son  should  look  his  best  on  this 
important  occasion,  and  had  arrayed  him  in  the 
Sunday  frock  of  one  of  his  departed  sisters.  It 
had  belonged  to  one  somewhat  younger  than  Lam 
entations,  and  so  the  fluted  ruffles  came  just  to 
the  knees,  which,  with  his  legs  and  feet,  were 
bare.  His  sunburned  hair,  usually  fluffing  out 
like  a  mop,  was  now  braided,  and  stood  up  in 
stiff  spikes  all  over  his  head.  He  was  nervous 
and  embarrassed.  Quickly  repeating  as  nearly 
as  he  could  the  substance  of  his  mother's  testi 
mony,  he  offered  to  swear  to  the  truth  of  it. 

Before  presenting  the  Bible,  the  judge  took 
occasion  to  say  a  word  on  the  sanctity  of  an 
oath,  and  even  spoke  kindly  to  the  boy  as  he 
made  a  brief  allusion  to  his  old  father,  Antony. 
Now  the  one  thing  sacred  to  Lamentations  was 
the  memory  of  his  father.  The  judge  bade  him 


LAMENTATIONS    OF   JEREMIAH    JOHNSON         63 

think  well  before  laying  his  hand  on  the  Holy 
Book,  and  handed  him  the  Bible.  In  taking  it, 
Lamentations'  hand  shook,  and  it  fell  upon  the 
floor*.  It  fell  open.  As  the  boy  stooped  to  pick 
it  up,  he  started — took  hold  of  it — dropped  it— 
and  finally,  trembling  violently  from  head  to 
foot,  he  approached  the  judge,  and  made  a  full 
confession  of  the  theft,  humbly  begging  that  he 
would  not  spare  him,  but  punish  him  as  he  de 
served.  But  the  judge  did  spare  him,  sending 
both  boy  and  mother  home  with  only  a  whole 
some  admonition. 

This  was  the  turning  -  point  in  Lamentations' 
life. 

The  old  judge,  believing  that  his  influence  had 
brought  the  confession,  took  a  new  interest  in  the 
lad,  and  the  boy  in  dresses  was  called  from  the 
cabin  in  the  rear  lot  to  serve  in  the  judge's  fam 
ily,  and  arrayed,  at  the  age  of  thirteen  years,  in 
his  first  pair  of  "  pants." 

Notwithstanding  many  faults  of  character,  such 
as  idleness  and  mischief,  Lamentations  never  be 
trayed  the  trust  of  his  benefactor.  He  was  his 
father's  son,  and  his  reformation  was  honest  and 
complete. 

But  this  was  fifteen  years  ago.  Priscilla  died 
in  grace  on  the  last  day  of  April  last  year,  and 
the  May-day  picnic  was  postponed  that  all  the 
Chinquepin  Chapel  folk  might  do  her  honor. 

Lamentations  still  holds  in  the  judge's  family 
a  position  of  trust.  He  is  now  also  the  pastor  of 


64         LAMENTATIONS    OF   JEREMIAH    JOHNSON 

Chinquepin  Chapel — loved  by  his  people  and  re< 
spected  by  all. 

Just  after  his  appointment  to  this  post  I  hap 
pened  to  be  in  the  neighborhood,  and  knowing 
something  of  the  young  man's  history,  I  went  to 
hear  his  inaugural  sermon.  I  was  struck  by  his 
changed  appearance.  No  longer  a  butt  of  ridi 
cule  in  skirts  did  I  behold,  but  a  serious  youth, 
reading  from  God's  word,  and  exhorting  the  peo 
ple  to  holier  living.  Briefly  reviewing  his  life 
from  his  youth  up,  he  finally  approached  the  time 
of  his  conversion. 

As  nearly  as  I  can  remember,  his  words  were 
these  :  "  I  was  buried  an'  steeped  in  sin,  my  bred- 
ren,  an'  every  time  I  tried  ter  rise  an'  be  a  man  in 
my  father's  image,  somethin'  bolt  me  back,  an'  I 
'lowed  'twas  them  frocks,  which  somehow  seemed 
to  keep  me  in  my  mother's  image — not  meanin' 
no  disrespec's  ter  her,  my  bredren,  but  it  ain't  in 
nature  fur  a  man  ter  'spire  when  'pearances  is  sot 
squarely  ag'in  'im ;  but  I  say  now,  ef  dem  gal 
clo'es  stunted  me  in  de  sperit,  it  was  becaze  I  was 
willin'  'ter  be  holt  back,  an'  wasn't  a-strivin'  ter 
rise.  But,  my  dear  bredren,  de  day  I  was  holten 
down  de  strongest,  Gord  callt  me,  an'  I  tell  yer, 
my  sistren  an?  bredren,  ef  ever  a  mannish  sperit 
was  holten  down  by  raiments  an'  adornments,  my 
sperit  was  cramped  dat  day  in  dat  white  swist 
frock !  I  jes  felt  like  I  warn't  no  mo'n  one  o'  dese 
heah  sky-rockets — a  heap  o'  show-offishness  roun' 
a  little  black  stick — an'  I  'lowed  to  myse'f  dat  I 


LAMENTATIONS    OF    JEREMIAH    JOHNSON         65 

belonged  ter  de  debble,  an'  I  was  ready  ter  say  any 
false  words  what  he  put  inter  nay  mouf,  when  dat 
Bible  fell  on  de  flo'.     An*  when  I  stooped  down 
ter  pick  it  up,  what  yer  reckin  I  see  ?     Bless 
Gord !     I  see  my  own  name  a-starfin'  on  top  o' 
de  page !    Yes,  ray  dear  bredren,  on  de  top,  an* 
in  dese  heah  big  letters!    Seemed  at  fust  like  I 
was  struck  bline,  an'  I    heerd  Gord  a-callin'  my 
name,  *  Lamentations  o'  Jeremiah  !'  an'  de  cote- 
house  an'  de  jedge  an'  all  de  people  faded  outn 
my  sight,  an'  I  nuver  felt  dat  swist  frock  no  mo'n 
ef  it  had  o'  been  breeches,  an'  I  seen  my  old  daddy 
a-layin'  on  de  baid,  with  his  white  haid  on  de  pil- 
ler,  an'  seemed  like  I  heerd  him  a-prayin'  ter  Gord 
ter  teck  an'  raise  up  dis  heah  po'  little  black  chile 
ter  wuck  fur  Him,  an'  ter  be  His  faithful  soljer 
an'  servant ;  an'  oh,  my  bredren,  I  know  den  dat 
Gord  done  callt  me — done  callt  me,  an'  showed 
me  my  name  in  de  book  ;  an'  dar  I  stood,  a  ugly 
black  varmint,  all  furbelowed  up  in  gal  finery,  an' 
chuck -full  dat  minute  0'  de  jedge's  dominicker ! 
Seemed  like  I  could  see  myse'f,  an'  I  say  ter  my- 
se'f,  '  I  ain't  fitten  ter  'spond  ter  sech  a  call  as 
dis.'    An'  a  big  lump  riz  up  in  my  froat,  big  as 
a  whole  tucky-hain,  but  I  knowed  hit  warn't  de 
shubshance  o'  dat  dominicker  dat  was  a-chokin' 
me  ;    hit  was  the  shubshance  o'  sin  !      Hit  was 
a-chokin'  me,  an'  I  spewed  it  outn  my  mouf,  an' 
confessed  de  trufe,  an'de  lump  went  outn  my  naik, 
an'  peace  riz  up  in  my  soul !" 
The  "Amens!"  and  "Glorys!"  came  in  thick 
5 


66          LAMENTATIONS    OF    JEREMIAH    JOHNSON 

and  fast  from  the  responsive  congregation  as  Lam 
entations  continued  : 

"  Yes,  Gord  call-t  me,  my  bredren,  an'  showed 
me  my  name  in  de  book ;  but  whar'bouts  in  de 
book  ?  At  de  bottom  o'  de  page  ?  No ;  He  'ain't 
lef  me  on  de  mo'ners'  bench.  In  de  middle  o'  de 
page  ?  No  ;  He  'ain't  sot  me  in  de  raids'  o'  de 
corngergatiom.  Den  whar  was  it,  my  bredren  ? 
Hit  was  on  top  o'  de  page!  Gord  done  call-t  me 
to  de  top — done  stood  me  heah  in  de  pulpit ;  an' 
by  His  grace  heah  I  is  !  I  tell  yer,  my  bredren, 
some  o'  dese  heah  preachers  is  gradgerated  f'om 
dishere  college  an'  some  f'om  dat  one,  but  Ps 
gradgerated  fom  on  high  /" 

The  excitement  and  enthusiasm  were  intense 
when  I  rose  and  quietly  withdrew  from  the 
chapel,  and  as  I  walked  homeward  the  words  of 
the  familiar  hymn  came  to  me  : 

"God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way 
His  wonders  to  perform." 

The  good  old  man  Antony — densely  ignorant, 
but  honest  in  his  conviction — in  the  one  act  of 
faith  that  seemed  most  to  betray  the  darkness  of 
his  mind,  selected  this  extraordinary  name  for  his 
son,  and  this  act  became  the  direct  means  of  his 
reward,  in  calling  his  boy  from  death  unto  life. 

I  say  this  confidently,  for,  after  the  test  of  fif 
teen  years,  the  man  most  loved  among  the  people, 
the  one  held  most  dear  by  the  suffering,  the  sick, 
and  the  aged  among  his  race,  but  the  one  espe 
cially  known  as  the  champion  of  all  small  boys,  is 
Lamentations  of  Jeremiah  Johnson. 


UNCLE  MTNGO'S  "SPECUL AXIOMS" 


UNCLE  MINGO'S  "  SPECULATIOMS  » 

«  T  -  LORD  -A  -MUSS  Y,  boss!     You  d'  know 

JL^  nothin' !  De  idee  o'  you  a-stannin'  up  dar  an* 
axin'  me  whar  I  goes  to  markit  !  Hyah  !  Hya,h  ! 

"  Well,  you  see,  boss,  my  markit  moves  roun' ! 
Some  days  hit's  right  heah  in  front  o'  my  risidencey 
an'  den  I  goes  ter  markit  wid  a  drap-line  an'  a 
hook  ;  an'  some  days  hit's  back  heah  in  de  Jedge's 
giarbage  bar'l,an'  den  I  goes  wid  a  hook  ag'in — a 
hook  on  a  stick. 

"Don't  you  go  to  heavin'  an'  a-hawkin'  an' 
a-spittin'  over  my  markitin',  boss !  I'se  clean  ef 
I  is  black,  an'  I'se  pretickilar  ef  I  does  go  to  mar- 
kit  pomiskyus  ! 

"  I  ain't  nuver  seed  a  fresh  giarbage  bar'l  out 
side  o'  no  quali-ty  kitchen  do',  whar  de  cook  had 
good  changeable  habits,  whar  I  couldn't  meek  a 
good  day's  markitin',  but  I  has  ter  know  de  hab 
its  o'  de  cook  befo'  I  patternizes  a  new  bar'l,  anv 
dat  bar'l's  got  ter  be  changed  an'  scalted  out  reg'- 
lar,  ef  hit  gits  my  trade,  caze  I  nuver  eats  stale 
pervisioms. 

"In  cose,  boss,  I  uses  'scretion  long  wid  my 
hook,  'caze  some  o'  de  contentions  o'  de  bar'l  ain't 
fittin'  fur  no  genterman  ter  eat,  but  seen  as  dish- 


70  UNCLE    MINGO'S    "  SPECULATIOMS  " 

water  an*  coffee-groun's,  dee  don't  tantalize  me, 
caze  dee  don't  hook  up,  an'  I  nuver  markits  wid 
no  dipper,  case  hit  markits  too  pomiskyus  ! 

"  Why,  boss,  ef  you  was  good-hongry,  you?d 
eat  de  kyabbage  an'  little  bacon  eens  arter  I's 
done  washed  an'  biled  'em  ! 

"De  bacon  eens  wid  de  little  pieces  o'  twine  in 
'em  looks  like  dee  was  jes'  lef  to  be  hooked  !  I 
tell  yer,  boss,  de  wuckins  o'  Providince  is  behelt 
in  de  leavin'  o'  dem  twine  strings. 

"  You  see,  yer  has  ter  onderstan'  how  ter  'scrim- 
inate  in  markitin'.  Dey's  diff'ent  kinds  o'  scraps. 
Dey's  kitchen  scraps  an'  dish  scraps  an'  plate 
scraps.  De  kitchen  scraps  I  uses  mos'ly  fur  sea- 
sonin' — de  green  tops  o'  de  ingons,  pa'sley  stems, 
cilery  leaves  an'  sech.  De  dish  scraps  is  de  ch'ice 
scraps.  Dee's  fowl  kyarcases  an'  ham  bones  an' 
roas'  beef  bones  an'  de  likes.  De  plate  scraps  I 
ain't  nuver  fooled  wid.  I  ain't  come  ter  dat  yit ! 
I  nuver  likes  ter  see  de  pattern  o'  nobody's  mouf 
on  my  victuals  !  Yer  see,  I  was  raised  high,  boss, 
an'  I  ain't  nuver  got  over  it. 

"  Talk  about  gwine  ter  markit !  I  don't  want 
no  better  markit  'n  a  f  us'  -  class  giarbage  bar'l 
an'  'scriminatiom.  Ef  I  wants  ter  know  who's 
who,  jes'  lemme  peep  in  de  giarbage  bar'l,  an'  I'll 
tell  yer  ef  dee's  de  reel  ole-timers  er  new-sprout 
ers  er  jes'  out-an'-out  po'  white  trash  !  My  old 
mammy  use  ter  say,  '  Show  me  de  cloze-line,  an' 
I'll  tell  yer  who  folks  is  !'  an'  she  could  do  it,  too ! 
but  I  say,  show  me  de  giarbage,  an'  I'll  tell  yer 
ef  dee'll  parse  muster  !" 


UNCLE   MINGO'S    "  SPECULATIOMS  "  71 

The  speaker,  an  aged,  white-haired  black  man, 
eat,  as  he  talked,  on  a  log  of  driftwood  on  the 
bank  of  the  Mississippi  River  at  Carrollton,  just 
above  New  Orleans.  I  often  strolled  out  for  a 
breeze  and  quiet  smoke  on  the  levee  during  the 
warm  summer  evenings,  and  it  was  here  that  I 
first  met  Uncle  Mingo.  He  was  a  garrulous  old 
negro,  who  lived  alone  in  a  shanty  outside  the 
new  levee,  and  was  evidently  pleased  in  discover 
ing  in  me  an  interested  listener. 

In  reply  to  his  last  remark  I  said,  "But  you 
forget,  old  man,  that  many  of  us  '  old-timers,'  as 
you  call  us,  are  poor  now  !" 

He  raised  his  face  in  surprise. 

"  Lord,  boss,  does  you  s'pose  I's  a-talkin'  'bout 
riches?  I's  one  o'  deze  befo'-de-war-yers,  an'  I 
knows !  I  tell  yer,  boss,  hit  ain't  on'y  de  money 
what  mecks  de  diffence,  hit's  de — hit's  de — boss, 
I  wisht  I  had  de  book  words  ter  splain  it  de  way  I 
knows  it  in  heah  !"  He  tapped  his  breast.  "  Hit's 
de —  de  diff'ence  in  de  —  in  de  cornsciousness. 
Dat's  de  oniest  way  I  kin  splain  it.  Hit  seems 
ter  me  de  ole-time  folks  had  de  inside  cornscious 
ness,  an'  all  dese  heah  new  people  ain't  got  nothin' 
but  de  outside  cornsciousness  !  De  outside  corn 
sciousness,  hit  bristles  an'  swishes  an'  wags  ter- 
menjus  ;  but  de  inside  cornsciousness,  hit  jis  lay 
low  an'  keep  still,  an'  hit's  gentle  in  de  high  places, 
an'  when  de  waters  o'  tribulatiom  runs  ag'in  it, 
hit  keeps  a  stiff  upper  lip  an'  don't  meek  no  sign. 

"Dar's  my  ole  madam,  Miss  Annie,  now,  dat 


72  UNCLE    MINGO  S    "  SPECULATIOMS  " 

nse  ter  smile  on  ev'y  nigger  'long  de  coas',  so  'f  eerd 
she  mought  be  a-slightin'  some  o'  she's  own  people, 
'caze  she  own  so  many  she  don't  know  half  on  'em 
— dar  she  is  now,  a-livin'  back  o'  town  meckin' 
yeast  cakes  fur  de  Christian  Woman's  JSfcchange, 
an',  boss,  I  wish-t  you  could  see  her ! 

"  You  reckin  she  talk  po'  mouf  ?  No,  sir ! 
She's  mouf  warn't  cut  out  by  de  po'  mouf  pat- 
term  !  She  nuver  lets  on,  no  more'n  ef  de  ole 
times  was  back  ag'in. 

"  I  goes  ter  see  her  de  days  my  rheumatiz  lets 
up  on  me  right  smart — I  goes  ter  see  her,  an'  she 
sets  in  dat  little  front  room  wid  de  two  little  yal- 
ler  steps  a-settin  out  at  de  front  do',  an'  she  axes 
me  how  I  come  on,  an'  talks  'long  peaceful  like, 
but  she  nuver  specifies  ! 

"No,  sir,  she  nuver  specifies  !  Fur  all  you  could 
see,  she  mought  have  her  ca'ge  out  at  de  front  do' 
an'  be  out  dar  ter  see  po'  white  folks  on  business. 
Dat  house  don't  fit  her,  and  Marse  Robert's  po'trit 
a-hangin'  over  dat  little  chimbly  look  like  hit's 
los',  hit  look  so  onnachel. 

"I  axed  Miss  Annie  one  day  how  long  she 
'spec's  ter  live  dat-a-way,  an'  ef  Gord  forgives  me, 
I  ain't  a-gwine  ter  quizzify  her  no  mo'  !" 

The  old  man  hesitated  and  looked  at  me,  evi 
dently  expecting  to  be  questioned. 

"  Why,  Uncle,  didn't  she  answer  you  ?"  I  said. 

"  Oh,  yas  sir  !  She  answered  me  ;  she  say, 
'Well,  Unc'  Mingo,  I  hardly  know.  I  finds  it 
ve'y  pleasant  an'  quiet  out  heah  !' 


73 

" '  Pleasant  an'  quiet  H  Lord  have  mussy  !  An' 
'bout  a  million  o'  po'  chillen  a-rippin'  an'  a-tarrin' 
up  and  down  de  banquette,  an'  de  organ-grinder 
drowndin'  out  de  soun'  o'  (  Ole  Sweet  Beans  an* 
Ba'ley  Grow '  on  her  little  box  steps  dat  minute  ! 

"I  ain't  nuver  answered  her,  on'y  jes'  tunned 
my  haid  an'  looked  at  de  crowd,  an'  she  say, 
'  Oh,  de  chillen,  dee  are  a  little  noisy,  but  I  meant 
in  a' — some  kind  o'  way — is  dey  got  sich  a  word 
as  soshual,  boss?" 

"Social?    Yes." 

"  Dat's  hit — in  a  soshual  way  she  say  she  fine 
hit's  quiet,  'caze,  she  say,  she  ain't  made  no  new 
'quaintances  out  dar ;  an'  den  she  ain't  said  no 
mo',  on'y  axed  me  ef  de  ribber's  risin',  an'  I  see 
she  done  had  shet  de  do'  on  my  quizzifyin'.  An'  I 
say  ter  mysef,  'New  'quaintances' — I  reckin  not! 
New  'quaintances  in  dat  mixtry  o'  Gascons  an' 
Dagos  an'  Lord  knows  what !  I  reckin  not. 
Why,  boss,  I  kin  smell  de  gyarlic  jes'  a-talkin' 
'bout  'em  !  De  Lord  !" 

"  Does  she  live  alone,  old  man  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  no,  sir,  she  got  'er  ma  wid  'er  !" 

"  Her  ma  !  I  thought  you  called  her  '  old 
madam.' " 

"So  I  is,  boss,  Miss  Annie's  we's  ole  madam, 
she's  jes'  lackin'  a  month  o'  bein'  as  ole  as  me, 
but  Ole  Miss,  she's  Miss  Annie's  ma,  she's  ole,  ole. 
She's  one  o'  dese  heah  ole  Rivolutioners,  an'  she's 
gittin'  mighty  'cripit  an'  chil'ish. 

"She's   got  'er  pa's  commission!  in  de  army 


74  UNCLE    MINGO'S   "  SPECULATIOMS  " 

Bign-t  by  Gineral  Washington.  All  we  ole  famb- 
ly  servants  knows  all  dat,  'caze  we's  seen  'em  teck 
it  out  an'  show  de  han'write  too  many  times  ! 

"  Yas,  sir,  she's  a  ole  Rivolutioner,  an'  in  place 
o'  dat,  heah  she  is  to-day  a-livin'  back  o'  town 
gratin'  cocoanut  an'  pickin'  out  puckons." 
"  Picking  pecans !     What  do  you  mean  ?" 
"  Ter  meek  pralines  ter  sell,  boss  !" 
"  And  how  does  she  sell  them,  pray  ?" 
"  She  don't  sell  'em,  bless  yo'  heart,  no  !     My 
daughter,  she  sells  'em  !" 
"  Your  daughter  !" 

"Yas,  sir,  my  younges'  gal,  Calline.  She's  de 
onies'  one  o'  my  chillen  what's  lef.  She's  de 
baby.  She  mus'  be  'long  'bout  fifty." 

"And  you  have  a  daughter  right  here  in  New 
Orleans,  and  live  here  by  yourself,  old  man  ! 
Why  doesn't  she  come  and  take  care  of  you  in 
your  old  age  ?" 

"  An'  who  gwine  to  look  arter  we's  white  folks? 
— HP  Ole  Miss  in  an'  out  o'  de  baid,  an'  go  of 
arrants,  an'  do  de  pot  an'  kittle  wuck,  an'  ca'y  de 
yeas'  cakes  ter  de  .Exchange,  an'  sell  pralines,  an' 
answer  de  do'-knocker?  Yer  see,  boss,  de  folks 
at  de  .Exchange,  dee  don't  know  nothin'  'bout  Ole 
Miss  an'  Miss  Annie.  Yer  see  Calline,  she's  dee's 
pertector !  I  ain't  a-sufferin',  boss,  I  ain't  a-suf- 
ferin' !  An'  ef  I  was,  hit  would  be  Gord's  will ; 
but  we  ain't  made  out'n  de  kine  o'  stuff  ter  try 
ter  meek  weselves  comfable,  whilst  we's  white 
people's  in  tribulatiom." 


'  SPECULATIOMS  "  75 

I  turned  and  looked  at  the  old  man.  A  ray 
from  the  sun,  now  setting,  across  the  river,  fell 
into  his  silver  hair  and  seemed  to  transform  it 
into  a  halo  around  the  gentle  old  face.  I  had 
often  found  entertainment  in  the  quiet  stream  of 
retrospective  conversation  that  seemed  to  flow 
without  an  effort  from  his  lips,  but  this  evening 
I  had  gotten  the  first  glimpse  of  his  inner  life. 

"  And  don't  you  feel  lonely  here  sometimes,  old 
man  ?" 

"I  know  hit  looks  ter  you  dat-a-way,  boss — I 
know  hit  looks  dat-a-way — but  when  I  sets  heah 
by  de  water's  aidge,  you  kyant  see  'em,  but  com 
pany's  all  arount  me  !  I'se  a-settin'  heah  an'  I 
ain't  settin'  heah !  I's  away  back  yonder  !  Some 
times  seems  like  dis  levee  is  de  ole  plantation,  an' 
out  yonder  whar  de  sun's  a-shinin'  on  de  water, 
meckin'  a  silver  road,  all  de  ole-time  folks  dee 
comes  out  dar  an'  seems  like  dee  talks  ter  me  an' 
I  lives  de  ole  times  ag'in ! 

"Sometimes  dee  comes  one  by  one  down  de 
shinin'  road,  an'  sometimes  a  whole  passel  on  'em 
at  once-t,  an'  seems  like  dee  sets  down  an'  talks 
ter  me. 

"  Lonesome  !  If  ever  I  gits  lonesome,  all  I  got 
ter  do  is  ter  come  heah  on  de  river-bank  an' 
ponder,  and  when  I  'gins  ter  speculate,  heah  dee 
come,  a-smilin'  jes'  like  dee  was  in  de  ole  days, 
an'  sometimes,  boss,  you  mought  come  ter  de  top 
o'  de  levee  dar,  an'  you  mought  look  out  heah  an' 
see  me,  a  ole  black  dried-up  critter,  settin'  heah 


76  UNCLE    MINGO'S    "SPECULATTOMS  " 

in  rags,  an'  maybe  at  dat  minute  I  mought  be  a 
million  o'  miles  f'om  heah,  a  settin'  up  on  top  o1 
Ole  Miss's  ca'ge,  a-drivin'  my  white  folks  to 
chu'ch,  an'  Marse  Robert,  de  one  dat  was  kilt  in 
de  army,  a  little  boy  no  more'n  so  high,  a-settin' 
up  by  my  side,  a-holdin'  one  rein  an'  a  cluckin' 
ter  de  horses  ! 

"  I  tell  yer,  boss,  when  I  use  ter  git  up  on  dat 
silver-mounted  ca'ge,  wid  my  stove-pipe  hat  on, 
dey  warn't  nobody  what  could  o'  bought  me  out. 
I  wouldn't  o'  sol'  out  ter  de  Juke  o'  Englan' !  I 
was  dat  puffed  out  wid  stuck-up-ishness  !" 

He  paused,  smiling  in  happy  contemplation  of 
his  departed  glory. 

"  Uncle,"  I  said,  "  I  am  going  to  ask  you  some 
thing.  What  was  the  matter  with  you  last  even 
ing  ?" 

"  Istiddy  ?     Why,  boss  ?" 

"Well,  I  was  sitting  out  here  on  the  levee 
with  a  party  of  friends,  smoking,  and  while  we 
laughed  and  told  old  jokes,  I  thought  I  heard 
some  one  sobbing — crying  out  aloud.  Peering 
through  the  twilight,  I  saw  you  just  where  you 
sit  now.  We  stopped  and  listened,  and  present 
ly  I  think  —  yes,  I  am  sure  — you  were  laugh 
ing.  Would  you  mind  telling  me  what  was  the 
matter  ?" 

"  Did  you  heah  me,  boss  ?  I  reckin  you  'lowed 
dat  I  was  gone  'stracted,  didn't  you  ?" 

"  Well,  no,  I  can't  say  that,  but  it  did  sound 
queer,  out  here  by  yourself." 


UNCLE   MINGO'S    "  SPECULATIOMS  "  77 

"An*  you'd  like  ter  know  de  'casion  of  it,  boss. 
Well,  I'll  tell  yer,  but  I'se  'feerd,  ef  I  does  tell 
yer,  yer'll  'low  dat  I'se  wus  'stracted  'n  yer  did 
befo'.  Howsomever,  hit  was  dis-a-way  : 

"  Istiddy  mornin'  I  was  a-settin'  in  my  kyabin 
a-sortin'  out  my  markitin' — a-puttin*  a  pile  o' 
kyabbage-leaves  heah  like,  and  de  chicken-haids 
like  heah,  an  pilin'  'em  up  accordin'  ter  dey 
kinds,  when,  all  on  a  suddint,  a  picture  o}  de  ole 
times  come  up  befo'  me,  an'  in  de  place  o*  all 
dese  scraps,  I  see  de  inside  o'  Ole  Miss's  kitchen, 
an'  seemed  like  I  could  heah  de  chicken  a-fryin', 
an'  de  hot  rolls  was  piled  up  befo'  me,  an'  'fo'  I 
knowed  it,  seemed  like  I  was  a-flyin'  roun'  de  big 
breckf  us  -  table  wid  a  white  ap'on  on,  an'  all  de 
diff'ent  kinds  o'  seasonable  steams  out'n  de  dishes 
come  a-puflm'  an'  a-puffin'  up  in  my  face,  an'  I 
couldn't  get  shet  ob  'em  ! 

"  I  tell  yer,  boss,  I  nuver  is  had  my  day's  mar 
kitin'  look  so  po'  as  it  did  in  de  presence  o' 
dat  visiom  o'  de  ole  dinin'-room  !  An'  when  I 
looked  at  my  chicken-haids,  seemed  like  all  dee's 
eyes  was  a  lookin'  at  me  sort  o'  gretful,  like  dee 
had  feelin's  fur  me,  an'  like  dee  'lowed  dat  I 
mought  hab  feelin's  fur  dem,  seein's  we  was  all 
havin'  hard  times  togedder. 

"  Yer  can  look  at  me,  boss,  an'  'cuse  me  o' 
high-mindedness,  but  my  stummick  turned  ag'in' 
dat  victuals,  an'  I  couldn't  eat  it ;  an'  I  upped  an' 
put  it  back  in  de  baskit,  an'  I  baited  a  swimp- 
bag  an*  a  hook,  an7  I  come  out  heah  ter  fish  fur 


78  UNCLE    MINGO'S    "  SPECULATIOM8  " 

my  dinner,  'caze  I  say  ter  myse'f,  *  When  giar* 
bage  markitin'  goes  ag'in'  yer,  yer  kyant  fo'ce  it !' 

"  Hit  warn't  'zacly  gwine  ag'in'  me,  but  hit  was 
gwine  ag'in'  my  ricollectioms,  an'  dey  ain't  much 
diff'ence,  'caze  dey  ain't  much  lef  o'  me  les'n  'tis 
ricollectioms. 

"  Well,  boss,  ef  flingin'  dat  dinner  in  de  ribber 
was  chil'ish  in  me,  Gord  was  mighty  good.  He 
nuver  punished  me,  but  humored  me,  same  as  we 
humors  a  sp'iled  chile,  an'  gimme  good  luck  wid 
de  bag  an'  line,  an'  I  eat  off'n  fried  cat-fish  an' 
b'iled  swimps  fur  dinner. 

"  Well,  dat  was  in  de  mornin'.  Dat  was  my  fust 
spell  o'  onsatisfactiom  ;  an'  arter  dinner  hit  sort  o' 
come  on  me  ag'in,  an'  I  got  sort  o'  lonesome,  an* 
long  todes  evenin'  I  come  out  heah  fur  company. 

"  I  d'  know  how  'tis,  but  I  meets  all  de  ole-time 
folks  better  out  heah  on  de  ribber-bank  'n  any 
place — so  I  set  down  an'  I  commenced  ter  ponder, 
an'  treckly  heah  dee  come !  An'  f  us'  thing  I  know, 
seemed  like  I  lef  my  ole  lorg  heah,  an'  slipped 
out'n  my  rheumatiz,  an'  was  out  in  de  silver  road 
wid  de  res',  a-flyin'  an'  a-dancin'  roun'  wid  all  de 
yo'ng  boys  an*  gals  what  I  knowed  way  back 
yonder.  Seemed  like  I  reely  was  dar,  boss,  an' 
de  wah,  an  de  breckin'  up,  an'  all  de  tribulatioms 
we  been  pass  froo  was  blotted  out,  an'  I  was 
yo'ng  ag'in  ! 

"  An'  now,  boss,  come  de  strange  'speunce  dat 
upsot  me.  Whilst  I  was  a-dancin'  in  de  light  an* 
ac'in'  skittisher  'n  a  yo'ng  colt,  I  happened  ter  tu'n 


UNCLE    MINGO'S   "  SPECULATIOMS"  79 

my  haid  roun'  an'  look  todes  de  levee,  an'  I  see  a 
'cripit,  lonesome  ole  man,  a-settin'  still  on  a  lorg 
by  hese'f,  an'  de  bones  o'  'is  laigs  a-showin'  froo 
de  holes  in  'is  breeches. 

"  Fust,  I  ain't  knowed  'im,  tell  I  looked  ag'in, 
an'  den  I  seed  'twas  me,  an'  seemed  like  I  was 
a-settin'  on  de  outside  aidge  o'  de  worl',  an'  I 
kyant  tell  yer  how  I  felt,  boss,  but  hit  sort  o' 
upsot  me.  I  tried  ter  laugh  an'  den  I  cried.  I 
knowed  I  warn't  ac'n  spornserble,  an'  hit  was 
chil'ish  in  me.  Dee  does  say  when  a  pusson  gits 
ter  a  sut'n  age  dee's  obleeged  ter  ac'  chil'ish,  an' 
I  reckin'  I  mus'  be  age-in' ;  but  whensomuver  I 
comes  out  heah  ter  ponder,  arter  dis,  I's  sholy 
gwine  ter  set  heah  an'  look  back,  'caze  a-gwine 
back  an'  lookin'  dis-a-way  don't  bring  no  comfort. 

"  Ter  teck  comfort  out  o'  speculations,  yer  has 
ter  know  which  een  ter  start  at  !" 

It  seemed  to  me  that  the  old  man  was  weaker 
than  usual  when  he  rose  to  go  into  his  cabin,  and 
he  allowed  me  to  take  his  arm  and  assist  him. 
When  we  reached  his  door,  I  felt  reluctant  to 
leave  him  alone.  "  Let  me  light  your  candle  for 
you,"  I  said. 

"  Candle  !     What  fur,  boss  ?" 

"  Why,  so  that  you  may  undress  and  go  to  bed 
comfortably." 

"  What  use  is  I  got  fur  a  candle,  boss  ?  All 
dese  years  I  been  livin'  heah,  I  ain't  nuver  is  had  no 
light  yit.  All  I  got  ter  do  is  ter  lay  down  an' 
I's  in  baid,  an'  ter  git  up  an'  I's  up.  I  ain't  prayed 


80  UNCLE    MINGO'S 

on  my  knees  sence  de  rheumatiz  struck  my  lef 
j'int." 

I  slipped  a  coin  into  the  old  man's  hand  and 
left  him,  but  the  realization  of  his  lonely  and 
feeble  condition  was  present  with  me  as  I  walked 
down  the  levee,  across  the  road,  up  through  the 
orange-grove  to  my  comfortable  home.  I  realized 
that  age  and  want  had  met  at  my  own  door. 
What  if  the  old  man  should  die  alone,  within 
reach  of  my  arm,  in  an  extremity  of  poverty  for 
which  I  should  become  personally  responsible,  if 
I  allowed  it  to  continue  ? 

The  question  of  his  relief  came  again  with  my 
first  thoughts  next  morning,  and  when  Septima's 
gentle  tap  sounded  on  my  door,  and  she  entered, 
freshly  tignoned  and  aproned  — when  her  black 
arm  appeared  beneath  the  mosquito-netting  with 
my  morning  cup  of  steaming  Mocha,  I  thought 
of  the  lonely  old  man  in  the  levee  cabin  and  of 
his  tremulous  handling  of  his  cooking  utensils 
that  moment,  perhaps,  in  the  preparation  of  his 
lonely  meal. 

The  picture  haunted  me,  and  so  the  warm 
breakfast  which  Septima  carried  him  was  sent  as 
much  for  the  relief  of  my  own  mind  as  for  his 
bodily  comfort,  as  was  also  the  dinner  which  I 
myself  placed  on  the  tray.  The  boiled  heart  of 
a  cabbage,  with  a  broad  strip  of  bacon,  cut  far 
from  the  perforation  that  betrays  the  string,  and 
the  headless  half  of  a  broiled  chicken — with  no 
eye  to  witness  its  own  humiliation  or  to  glaze  in 


UNCLE   MINGO'S   "SPECULATIOHS"  81 

sympathetic  contemplation  of  the  old  man's  en 
vironment  of  poverty. 

In  the  early  afternoon,  while  the  sun  was  still 
high,  I  yielded  to  an  impulse  to  go  out  and  see 
how  my  protege  was  getting  along.  I  found  him 
sitting  with  head  uncovered  in  the  full  glare  of 
the  afternoon  sun,  outside  his  cabin  door. 

"  Are  you  trying  to  bake  yourself,  Uncle  ?"  I 
said,  by  way  of  greeting. 

"  Oh,  no,  sir  ;  no,  sir.  I's  jes'  a-settin'  out  heah 
teckin'  a  little  free-nigger-fire  ;"  and  he  immedi 
ately  began  thanking  me  for  my  slight  remem 
brance  of  him  at  meal-time. 

"  You  mus'  o'  been  tryin'  ter  meek  my  visiom 
come  true,  boss,  'caze  when  I  looked  at  dat  breck- 
fus'  dis  mornin',  hit  come  back  ter  me,  an'  I's 
ashamed  ter  tell  yer,  but  I  did  ac'  chil'ish  ag'in, 
an'  my  froat  seemed  like  hit  stopped  up,  an'  I 
kivered  de  plate  up  an'  come  out  heah  an'  cried 
scan'lous.  Hit  looked  like  Gord  was  jes'  a-sp'ilin' 
me  wid  humorin'  me  dat-a-way. 

"  But  treckly  dat  passed  orf,  an'  I  come  in  an' 
sot  down,  an'  seemed  like  I  was  mos'  starved,  I 
was  dat  hongry,  but  I  saved  orf  a  little  speck  o' 
ev'ything  you  sont  me,  jes1  so  dat  ef  I  los'  myse'f 
in  ponderin',  an'  mistrusted  de  sho'-nough-ness  o' 
dat  breckfus',  I  could  fetch  'em  out  fur  proof, 
'caze  hit  don't  meek  no  diffe'nce  how  big  visioms 
is,  dee  don't  leave  no  scraps  ;  an'  you  know, 
boss,  jes'  livin'  like  I  does,  ter  myse'f,  sort  o1  on 
de  aidge  bertwix  visioms  o'  de  min'  an'  visioms 
6 


82  UNCLE   MINGO'S    "  SPECULATIOMS  " 

o'  de  eye,  I  does  git  mixed  up  some  days,  an'  I 
sca'cely  knows  ef  I  kin  put  out  my  han'  an'  tech 
what  I  sees  or  not." 

"How  long  have  you  been  living  this  wav, 
Uncle?" 

"  Well,  I  d'  know  ezzactly,  boss.  I  stayed  long 
wid  Ole  Miss,  down  in  Frenchtown,  s'long's  I 
could  meek  a  little  off  n  my  buck  an'  saw,  an' 
dee  quar'ls  at  me  reg'lar  now  fur  leavin'  'em— in- 
specially  Ole  Miss.  She  so  'feered  I  mought  git 
sick  an'  dee  not  know.  Calline,  she  comes  up 
mos'ly  ev'y  Sunday  ter  see  me,  an'  fetches  me 
clean  cloze  an'  a  pone  o'  fresh  braid,  an'  Ole  Miss 
son's  me  a  little  small  change,  an'  I  daresn't  'fuse 
ter  teck  it,  needer,  but  I  ain't  nuver  used  it. 
Lord — no  !  I  couldn't  use  de  money  dee  mecks 
wid  dee's  white  little  han's — " 

The  old  man  seemed  to  forget  my  presence,  and 
his  voice  fell  almost  to  a  whisper. 

"  You  haven't  told  me  how  long  you  have  been 
here,  Uncle." 

"  Dat's  so,  boss— dat's  so  !"  he  said,  rousing 
himself.  "I  was  a-sayin'  'bout  leavin'  Ole  Miss — 
I  nuver  liked  it  down  dar,  no  how,  in  Frenchtown, 
whar  dee  lives.  Seemed  like  I  couldn't  git  my 
bref  good  behindt  dem  close-t  rows  o'  box  steps, 
an'  so  when  I  'scivered  dat  I  could  git  reg'lar 
wuck  a-sawin'  drif'-wood  up  heah,  I  come  up  an' 
rid  down  in  de  kyars  ev'y  day;  but  dat  was 
wearin'  on  me,  an'  so—  You  ricollec'  de  time  o'  de 
cavin'  o'  de  bank  below  heah,  when  two  o'  my 


UNCLE    MINGO'S    "  SPECULATIOMS  "  83 

color,  Israel  an'  Hannah,  got  drownded  ?  Well, 
dat  sca'd  off  mos'  o'  dem  what  was  a-livin'  out 
side  o'  de  new  levee,  an*  dey  was  a  heap  o'  shan 
ties  up  an'  down  de  coas'  lef  empty,  an'  I  moved 
inter  dis  one.  Dee's  mos'ly  caved  in  now.  Ev'y 
time  my  daughter  heahs  now  o'  de  cavin'  o'  de 
bank  up  or  down  de  ribber  she  comes  an'  baigs 
me  ter  go  home— but  I  ain't  afeerd,  no,  I  ain't 
afeerd.  Dis  bank's  got  a  stronger  holt  on  de 
main  Ian'  dan  I  got  on  de  bank  o'  Jurdan." 

"  You  talk  about  Jordan  as  if  it  were  nothing. 
Aren't  you  ever  afraid  when  you  think  of  it, 
Uncle?" 

"  Afeerd  o'  what,  boss  ?" 

"  Of  dying,"  I  answered  plainly. 

He  smiled.  "  Was  you  afeerd  o'  yo'  pa  when 
you  was  little,  boss  ?" 

"  Why,  certainly  not." 

"  Den  I  ain't  afeerd  nuther.  Ain't  Gord  we's 
Father  ?  He  done  handled  me  too  tender  fur  me 
ter  be  'feerd  o'  Him.  Yas,  He  done  handled  me 
too  tender  —  an'  now,  when  I's  gittin'  notionate, 
He's  a-spilin'  me  wid  humorins  an'  indulgins. 
Afeerd!  No,  no  !" 

The  requirements  of  beauty,  as  laid  down  by 
authorities  on  the  subject,  are  always  resolved 
into  a  question  of  lines  and  color,  of  curves  and 
tints — a  certain  synthesis  of  corresponding  parts 
into  a  perfect  unit  of  grace.  It  may,  or  may  not 
be,  that  an  analysis  would  demonstrate  that  the 
conditions  had  been  for  the  moment  fulfilled  in 


84 

the  unconscious  person  of  this  old  negro.  I 
know  not  how  this  may  be,  but  I  am  sure  I  never 
saw  any  countenance  more  spiritual  and  beautiful 
than  the  gentle  brown  face  he  turned  upward  tow 
ard  heaven,  as  in  half  soliloquy  he  thus  spoke 
the  childlike  trust  of  his  undoubting  heart.  I 
understood  now  how  he  might  even  doubt  wheth 
er  he  might  not  "put  out  his  hand  and  touch" 
the  hand  of  the  Giver,  who  was  as  real  to  him  as 
the  gifts  with  which  he  felt  himself  "humored 
and  indulged." 

"  Except  ye  become  as  little  children — "  God 
give  us  all  such  faith  as  this  ! 

"  You  are  not  all  recollections  after  all,  "Uncle," 
I  said. 

"  Not  in  de  sperit,  boss— jes'  in  de  miri*.  Yer 
see,  de  sperit  kin  go  whar  de  min'  kyant  foller. 
My  min'  goes  back  an'  picks  up  ricollectioms 
same  as  you  tecks  dese  heah  pressed  flowers  out'n 
a  book  an'  looks  at  'em.  My  min'  is  de  onies' 
book  I's  got,  an'  de  ricollectioms  is  pressed  in 
hit  same  as  yo'  pressed  flowers. 

"  Gord  ain't  forbidden  us  to  gyadder  de  flowers 
what  He  done  planted  'long  de  road,  an'  de  little 
flowers  we  picks  up  an'  ca'ys  'long  wid  us,  dee  ain't 
a-showin'  dat  we's  forgittin'  we's  journey's  een." 

I  left  the  old  man  with  a  keener  regret  than  I 
had  felt  the  evening  before,  and  I  was  annoyed 
that  I  could  not  shake  it  off.  I  knew  the  thing 
that  I  ought  to  do,  but  it  involved  inconvenience 
to  me  which  my  selfishness  resented.  I  had  cul- 


UNCLE    MINGO'S    "  SPJKCULATIOMS  "  85 

tivated  the  old  negro  to  put  him  into  a  book,  and 
now  I  felt  impelled  to  move  him  bodily  into  my 
yard.  I  could  not  deal  otherwise  than  gently 
with  this  antiquated  bunch  of  aristocratic  recol 
lections,  nor  treat  with  dishonor  the  spirit  that 
soared  to  heights  to  which  I  had  not  attained. 

I  strolled  up  the  levee  and  back  again  several 
times,  always  turning  before  I  reached  the  little 
cabin  ;  but  finally  I  approached  it  and  seated 
myself  as  before  on  a  log  on  its  shady  side,  facing 
the  old  man.  "Uncle,"  I  said,  plunging  head 
long  into  the  subject,  "I  want  you  to  come  and 
live  in  a  cabin  in  my  yard.  You  can't  stay  here 
by  yourself  any  longer  !" 

"  Yer  reckin'  dee'll  min'  ef  I  stays  ?"  he  asked 
apprehensively. 

"  Reckon  who'll  mind  ?" 

"  De  owners  o'  de  kyabin,  boss.  Yer  reckin' 
dee'll  min'  ?" 

"  I'm  the  owner,  Uncle,  and  I  don't  mind  your 
staying,  but  I  can  make  you  more  comfortable  in 
another  vacant  cabin  within  my  grounds.  Won't 
you  come  ?" 

The  old  man  looked  troubled.  "  You's  mighty 
kine  an'  mighty  good;  but,  boss,  ef  yer  don't  min', 
I'll  stay  right  heah." 

"The  other  cabin  is  better,"  I  insisted;  "the 
chimney  of  this  is  falling  now — look  at  it." 

"  I  know,  boss,  I  know  ;  hit  ain't  dat — but 
hit's  my  white  folks.  Dee's  dat  proud  dee 
wouldn't  like  me  ter  be  berholten  ter  nobody  but 


86  TJNCLE   MINGO'S    "  SPECULATIOMS  " 

dem.  Yer  see,  I'd  be  a  'umblin'  dem,  an'  dat 
ain't  right." 

"  Well,  Uncle,"  I  said,  "  do  you  know  where 
I  could  get  a  good,  steady  old  man  to  come  and 
stay  in  my  little  cabin  and  look  after  things  ?  I 
am  away  a  good  deal,  and  I  want  some  reliable 
man  to  carry  my  hen-house  key  and  gather  eggs 
and  vegetables  for  me.  I'd  give  such  a  man  a 
good  home,  and  take  care  of  him." 

"  H-how  did  you  say  dat,  boss  ?" 

I  repeated  it. 

"  Yer  reckin'  I'd  do,  boss  ?" 

"  Well,  yes,  I  think  you'll  do.  Suppose  you 
try  it,  anyway." 

We  moved  him  over  that  evening,  and  he 
seemed  very  happy  in  his  new  home.  He  even 
wept,  as,  on  entering  it,  he  glanced  around  at  its 
homely  comforts  ;  but  he  was  evidently  failing, 
and  it  was  not  long  before  he  often  kept  his  bed 
all  day. 

He  had  been  with  us  a  month,  when,  one  evening, 
he  sent  for  me.  "  Set  down  heah,  boss,  please, 
sir,"  he  said.  "  I  wants  ter  talk  ter  yer.  I's  wor 
ried  in  my  min'  'bout  my  people — my  white  folks. 
Dis  worrjmint  ain't  nuver  come  ter  mefurnothin', 
an'  I's  'sturbed  in  de  sperit." 

"  Aren't  you  sick  yourself,  Uncle  ?"  I  asked, 
for  he  looked  very  feeble. 

"  No,  sir,  I  ain't  sick.  I's  jes'  a-nearin'  home. 
Some  days  hit  seems  ter  me  I  kin  heah  de  ripple 
o'  de  water,  I's  dat  near  de  aidge.  De  bank's 


87 

nigh  cavin',  but  Gord's  a-lettin'  me  down  mighty 
tender — mighty  tender. 

"But  dat  ain't  what  meek  me  son'  fur  you, 
boss.  I's  troubled  'bout  my  people.  I  had  a 
warnin'  in  my  dream  las'  night,  de  same  warnin* 
I  had  when  Marse  Robert  was  kilt,  an'  when  Ole 
Boss  died,  an'  when  all  we's  troubles  come  ;  an'  I 
'spicion  now  dat  hit's  Ole  Miss  gone — an'  would 
yer  min'  'quirin'  'bout  'em  fur  me,  boss  ?" 

Thrusting  his  hand  nervously  under  his  pillow, 
he  brought  out  a  little  soiled  package,  wrapped 
and  tied  in  the  corner  of  an  old  bandana  handker 
chief. 

"An'  won't  yer,  please,  sir,  ter  teck  dis  little 
package  wid  yer,  an'  ef  Ole  Miss  is  daid,  jes' 
give  dis  ter  Calline  fur  me  ?  Don't  'low  nothin'  ter 
nobody  else — jes'  give  hit  ter  Calline,  an'  say  as  I 
sont  it.  Hit's  twenty  dollars  what  I  saved  f'om 
my  wood-sawin',  'long  wid  all  de  change  Ole  Miss 
sont  me. 

"I  done  saved  it  by,  'g'inst  de  comin'  o'  dis 
time  fur  Ole  Miss,  an'  maybe  dee  mought  be  sca'ce 
o'  small  change.  Dee's  address  is  in  dar." 

Untying  the  handkerchief,  I  found  on  a  scrap 
of  paper  the  name  of  a  street  and  number,  but  no 
name  of  a  person.  Sometimes  pride  survives 
after  a  fall. 

"  Tell  Calline,"  the  old  man  continued,  "  I  say 
hit's  all  fur  Ole  Miss's  buryin',  an'  don't  specify  ter 
Miss  Annie,  caze  she's  dat  proud  she  moughtn't 
teck  it,  but  Ole  Miss  wouldn't  kyah — she  wouldn't 


88  UNCLE   MINGO'S    "  SPECULATIOMS  " 

kyah.  Ef  I  'lowed  dat  Ole  Miss  would  kyah,  I 
wouldn't  fo'ce  it  on  her,  'caze  I  wouldn't  have  no 
right — but  she  wouldn't  kyah. 

"  She  nussed  me  when  I  was  a  baby — Ole  Miss 
did. 

"  My  mammy,  she  nussed  Miss  Annie  reg'lar, 
an'  yer  know  she  an'  me  is  jes'  a  month  older  'n 
one-'n'er,  an'  you  know  how  women  folks  is,  boss, 
jes'  changin'  roun'  an'  a-nussin'  one-'n'er's  babies, 
jes'  fur  fun,  like.  Ole  Miss  cay'ed  me  roun'  an' 
played  wid  me,  same  as  you'd  pet  a  little  black 
kitten,  an'  soon's  I  could  stan'  up  dee'd  meek  me 
clap  an'  dance,  an'  I  couldn't  sca'cely  talk  befo' 
dee  had  me  a-preachin'  an'  a-shoutin'. 

"  Dee  had  me  fur  a  reg'lar  show  when  dee  had 
company.  Dee  jes'  out  an'  out  sp'iled  me.  I  was 
jes'  riz  up  wid  'em  all,  right  in  de  house  ;  an'  den, 
all  indurin  o'  de  war,  when  all  we's  men  folks  was 
away,  I  slep'  at  Ole  Miss's  do',  an'  Calline,  she 
slep'  on  a  pallet  in  dee's  room,  'twix  dee's  two 
baids. 

"  Dat's  de  reason  we  loves  one-'n'er.  We's  done 
seen  good  an'  bad  times  togedder — good  an'  bad 
times — togedder." 

His  voice  faltered — I  looked  at  him  quickly. 
He  seemed  suddenly  to  have  fallen  asleep.  I  felt 
his  pulse  gently,  so  as  not  to  rouse  him.  It  was 
weak  and  flickering,  but  not  alarmingly  so,  I 
thought.  Calling  Septima,  and  bidding  her  sit 
with  the  old  man  for  a  while,  I  left  him.  About 
bedtime  she  summoned  me  to  come  into  the 


cabin.  Mingo  had  fainted.  He  was  reviving 
when  I  entered,  and  his  eyes  moved  with  un 
certain  glance  about  the  room. 

When  he  saw  me  he  smiled.  "  Tell  Ole  Miss, 
don't  be  af eerd,"  he  said ;  "  Ps  a-sleepin'  at  de 
do'." 

His  mind  was  wandering.  He  lay  in  a  semi 
conscious  state  for  an  hour  or  more,  then  he 
seemed  to  be  sinking  again,  but  reaction  came  a 
second  time. 

"  Hit's  a-cavin'  in  ! — cavin'  in  easy  an'  slow — 
He's  a-lettin'  me  down — mighty  tender." 

Suddenly  a  new  light  shone  in  his  eyes.  "  Heah 
dee  come — down  de  shinin'  road — Marster  !" 

So  the  end  came.  At  this  supreme  moment, 
when  his  spirit  passed  away,  his  face  wore  again 
that  expression  of  exquisite  beauty,  that  illumi 
nation  as  with  a  spiritual  light  from  within,  that 
had  glorified  it  once  before  when  he  spoke  of  the 
surpassing  love  of  God. 

Early  next  morning,  a  neat  old  colored  woman 
came  in  haste  for  Uncle  Mingo.  It  was  Caroline. 
The  old  lady,  "  Ole  Miss,"  had  died  during  the 
night,  and  Caroline  had  come  for  her  father. 
Finding  the  levee  cabin  empty,  she  had  made 
inquiries  and  been  directed  here.  She  was  in 
great  distress  over  her  new  sorrow,  and  seemed 
much  disturbed  lest  the  old  man  had  missed  her. 

I  insisted  that  I  was  his  debtor  to  at  least  the 
paltry  sum  needed  for  his  burial — and  was  it  not 
so?  We  pay  directly  or  indirectly  for  the  priv« 


90  UNCLE   MINGO'S    "  SPECULATIOMS  " 

ilege  of  hearing  sermons  ;  we  pay  for  stories  of 
self-sacrifice  and  devotion  ;  we  pay  for  poetry  ; 
we  pay  for  pictures  of  saints.  I  had  gotten  all 
these,  and  what  had  I  given  ?  One  month's  rent 
of  an  old  cabin  and  a  few  crumbs  from  my  table. 

And  in  another  sense  still,  I  was  old  Mingo's 
debtor.  Had  he  not  made  known  to  me  the  silent 
suffering  of  two  Southern  gentlewomen?  And 
inasmuch  as  every  true  Southern  man  feels  him 
self  to  be  the  personal  champion  and  friend  of 
every  needy  Southern  woman,  I  might  now  be 
come,  in  this  small  matter,  a  friend  to  the  lonely 
lady  who  hid  her  pride,  as  well  as  her  poverty,  in 
the  little  grief-stricken  house  on  a  shabby  street 
"  back  of  town." 

I  asked  this  much,  but  a  dainty  note  in  a  tremu 
lous  feminine  hand  "  thanked  Monsieur  most 
heartily  for  all  his  kindness,  and  for  his  present 
generous  offer,  but  assured  him  that  the  privilege 
of  caring  for  the  body  of  one  of  the  most  beloved 
of  her  old  servants  was  one  which  his  former 
mistress  could  not  forego."  There  was  no  signa 
ture  ;  but  what  was  the  need  of  one  ? 

A  plain  black  hearse,  followed  by  a  single  car 
riage,  in  which  Caroline  sat  alone,  came  in  the 
afternoon  for  the  remains  of  Uncle  Mingo. 
Moving  slowly  down  St.  Charles  Street  to  Canal, 
they  turned  down  and  across,  out  four,  five 
squares,  then  down  again,  till,  finally,  hesitat 
ing  a  few  moments,  they  fell  into  line  with  an 
other  hearse  that  stood  before  a  pair  of  box-steps 


1  SPECULATIOMS  "  91 

in  a  tenement  row,  and  continued  to  the  old  St. 
Louis  Cemetery. 

The  old  lady  sleeps  her  last  sleep  in  a  marble 
bed,  the  stateliest  in  a  stately  row.  I  started  as  I 
read  the  name  :  "  These  people  here — and  in 
want!  Robert — 'Marse  Robert' —  Yes —  No,  it 
cannot  be  !  We  were  friends — in  the  army  to 
gether — he  was  killed  at  Shiloh.  Something  must 
be  done — but  how  ?  I  must  inquire — down  town 
— at  the  Pickwick  —  or  maybe  through  Caro 
line—" 

As,  in  the  old  days,  Mingo  slept  outside  his 
mistress's  door,  so,  in  a  little  grave  all  his  own,  in 
the  corner  of  the  family  lot,  he  sleeps  now  at  her 
feet. 


THE  WIBDER  JOHNSING- 


THE  WIDDER  JOHNSING 

"Monkey,  monkey,  bottle  o'  beer, 
How  many  monkeys  have  we  here  ? 
One,  two,  three  — 
Out  goes  she  !" 


'  no  use  ter  try  ter  hoP  'er.  She  des 
gwine  f'om  fits  ter  convulsions,  and  f'om 
convulsions  back  inter  fits  !" 

Sister  Temperance  Tias  raised  her  hands  and 
spoke  low.  She  had  just  come  out  of  the  room  of 
sorrow. 

Jake  Johnson  was  dead,  and  Lize  Ann  Johnson 
again  a  widow. 

The  "  other  room  "  in  the  little  cabin  was 
crowded  with  visitors  —  the  old,  the  young,  the 
pious,  the  thoughtless,  the  frivolous  —  all  teeming 
with  curiosity,  and  bursting  into  expressions  of 
sympathy,  each  anxious  to  look  upon  the  ever- 
interesting  face  of  death,  every  one  eager  to 
"  he'p  hoi'  Sis'  Lize  Ann." 

But  Temperance  held  sway  on  this  as  on  all 
similar  occasions  on  the  plantation,  and  no  one 
would  dare  to  cross  the  threshold  from  "  the  other 
room  "  until  she  should  make  the  formal  announce 
ment,  "De  corpse  is  perpared  ter  receive  'is  frien's," 


96  THE   WIDDEB   JOHNSING 

and  even  then  there  would  be  the  tedium  of  prece 
dence  to  undergo. 

It  was  tiresome,  but  it  paid  in  the  end,  for  long 
before  midnight  every  visitor  should  have  had  his 
turn  to  pass  in  and  take  a  look.  Then  would  begin 
an  informal,  unrestricted  circulation  between  the 
two  rooms,  when  the  so-disposed  might  "  choose 
pardners,"  and  sit  out  on  the  little  porch,  or  in  the 
yard  on  benches  brought  in  from  the  church,  and 
distributed  about  for  that  purpose. 

Here  they  would  pleasantly  gather  about  in 
groups  with  social  informality,  and  freely  discuss 
such  newly  discovered  virtues  of  the  deceased  as 
a  fresh  retrospect  revealed,  or  employ  themselves 
with  their  own  more  pressing  romances,  as  they 
saw  fit. 

There  were  many  present,  inside  and  at  the 
doors,  who  eagerly  anticipated  this  later  hour,  and 
were  even  now  casting  about  for  "pardners"  ;  but 
Sister  Temperance  was  not  one  of  these.  Now 
was  the  hour  of  her  triumph.  It  was  she  alone, 
excepting  the  few,  selected  by  herself,  who  were 
at  this  moment  making  a  last  toilet  for  the  de 
parted,  who  had  looked  upon  the  face  of  the 
dead. 

She  was  even  ahead  of  the  doctors,  who,  as  the 
patient  had  died  between  visits,  did  not  yet  know 
the  news. 

As  she  was  supreme  authority  upon  the  case  in 
all  its  bearings,  whenever  she  appeared  at  the 
door  between  the  two  rooms  the  crowd  pressed 


THE   WIDDKB   JOHNSING  97 

eagerly  forward.  They  were  so  anxious  for  the 
very  latest  bulletin. 

"  F'om  convulsions  inter  fits !  Umh  !"  repeated 
the  foremost  sister,  echoing  Temperance's  words. 

"Yas,  an'  back  ag'in !"  reiterated  the  oracle. 
"  She  des  come  thoo  a  fit,  an*  de  way  she  gwine 
orn  now,  I  s'picion  de  nex'  gwine  be  a  reverind 
convulsion  !  She  taken  it  hard,  I  tell  yer !"  And 
Sister  Temperance  quietly,  cruelly  closed  the  door, 
and  withdrew  into  the  scene  of  action. 

"Sis'  Lize  Ann  ought  ter  be  helt,"  ventured  a 
robust  sister  near  the  door. 

"  Or  tied,  one,"  added  another. 

"  I  knowed  she  keered  mo'  fur  Brer  Jake  'n  she 
let  orn,"  suggested  a  third.  "Lize  Ann  don't 
mean  no  harm  by  her  orf -handed  ways.  She  des 
kep'  'er  love  all  ter  'erse'f." 

So  ran  the  gossip  of  "  the  other  room,"  when 
Temperance  reappeared  at  the  door. 

"  Sis'  Calline  Taylor,  yo'  services  is  requi'ed." 
She  spoke  with  a  suppressed  tone  of  marked  dis 
tinctness  and  a  dignity  that  was  inimitable,  where 
upon  a  portly  dame  at  the  farthest  corner  of  the 
room  began  to  elbow  her  way  through  the  crowd, 
who  regarded  her  with  new  respect  as  she  entered 
the  chamber  of  death,  a  shrill  scream  from  the 
new-made  widow  adding  its  glamour  to  her  hon 
ors,  as,  with  a  loud  groan,  she  closed  the  door  be 
hind  her. 

A  stillness  now  fell  upon  the  assembly,  dis 
turbed  only  by  an  occasional  moan,  until  Sister 


98  THE    WIDDEB   JOHNSING 

Phyllis,  a  leader  in  things  spiritual,  broke   the 
silence. 

"  Sis'  Calline  Taylor  is  a  proud  han'  ter  hoi' 
down  fits,  but  I  hope  she'll  speak  a  word  in  season 
fur  sperityal  comfort." 

"  Sis'  Tempunce  callin'  out  Scripture  ev'y  time 
she  see  'er  ease  up,"  said  old  Black  Sal.  "  Lize 
Ann  in  good  han's,  po'  soul !  Look  like  she  is  got 
good  'casion  ter  grieve.  Seem  like  she's  born  ter 
widderhood." 

"  Po'  Jake  !  Yer  reck'n  she  gwine  bury  'im 
'longside  o'  Alick  an'  Steve?" — her  former  hus 
bands. 

"  In  co'se.  'Tain'  no  use  dividin*  up  grief  an' 
sowin'  a  pusson's  sorrer  broadcas',  'caze — " 

The  opening  door  commanded  silence  again. 

"  Brer  Jake's  face  changin'  mightily  !"  said 
Temperance,  as  she  stood  again  before  them. 
"De  way  hit's  a-settlin',  I  b'lieve  he  done  foun' 
peace  ter  his  soul." 

"  Is  'is  eyes  shet  ?" 

"De  lef  eye  open  des  a  leetle  teenchj  tinechy 
bit." 

"  Look  fur  a  chile  ter  die  nex' — a  boy  chile.  Yer 
say  de  lef  eye  open,  ain't  yer  !" 

"Yas — de  one  todes  de  chimbly.  He  layin* 
catti-cornders  o'  de  baid,  wid  'is  foots  ter  de  top." 

"  Catti-cornders  !     Umh  !" 

"Yas,  an'  wid  'is  haid  down  todes  de  foot." 

"Eh,  Lord  !  Haids  er  foots  is  all  one  ter  po' 
Jake  now." 


THE    WIDDER    JOHNSING  99 

"  Is  yer  gwine  plat  'is  fingers,  Sis'  Tempunce  ?" 

"  His  fingers  done  platted,  an'  de  way  I  done 
twissen  'em  in  an'  out,  over  an'  under,  dee  gwine 
stay  tell  Gab'iel  call  fur  'is  ban' !" 

"Umh!" 

"  Eh,  Lord  !  An'  is  yer  done  comb  'is  haid,  Sis' 
Tempunce  ?" 

"  I  des  done  wropp'n  an'  twissen  it  good,  an'  I 
'low  ter  let  it  out  fur  de  fun'al  to-morrer.  I 
knowed  Jake  'd  be  mo'  satisfider  ef  he  knowed  it 
'd  be  in  its  fus'  granjer  at  the  fun'al — an'  Sis'  Lize 
Ann  too.  She  say  she  'ain't  nuver  is  had  no  sec- 
on'-class  buryin's,  an'  she  ain'  gwine  have  none. 
Time  Alick  died  she  lay  in  a  trance  two  days,  an' 
de  brass  ban'  at  de  fun'al  nuver  fazed  'er  !  An' 
y'  all  ricollec'  how  she  taken  ter  de  woods  an'  had 
ter  be  ketched  time  Steve  was  kilt,  an'  now  she 
des  a-stavin'  it  orf  brave  as  she  kin  on  convulsions 
an'  fits  !  Look  like  when  a  pusson  taken  sorrer  so 
hard,  Gord  would  sho'ly  spare  de  scourgin'  rod." 

"Yas,  but  yer  know  what  de  preacher  say — 
'  Gord  sen'  a  tempes'  o'  win'  ter  de  shorn  lamb.' " 

"  Yas  indeedy,"  said  another,  a  religious  celeb 
rity,  "  an'  we  daresn't  jedge  de  Jedge  !" 

"  Maybe  sometimes  Gord  sen'  a  tempes'  o'  win' 
ter  de  shorn  lamb  ter  meek  it  run  an'  hide  in  de 
Shepherd's  fol'.  Pray  Gord  dis  searchin'  win'  o' 
jedgmint  gwine  blow  po'  Sis'  Lize  Ann  inter  de 
green  pastures  o'  de  kingdom  !" 

"  Amen  !"  came  solemnly  from  several  direc 
tions. 


100  THE    WIDDKB   JOHNSINQ 

An  incisive  shriek  from  within,  which  startled 
the  speakers  into  another  awe  -  stricken  silence, 
summoned  Temperance  back  in  haste  to  her  post. 

Crowds  were  gathering  without  the  doors  now, 
and  the  twinkle  of  lanterns  approaching  over  the 
fields  and  through  the  wood  promised  a  popular 
attendance  at  the  wake,  which,  after  much  tedious 
waiting,  was  at  last  formally  opened.  Temper 
ance  herself  swung  wide  the  dividing  door,  and 
hesitating  a  moment  as  she  stood  before  them, 
that  the  announcement  should  gain  in  effect  by 
a  prelude  of  silence,  she  said,  with  marked  solem 
nity  : 

"De  corpse  is  now  perpared  ter  receive  'is 
frien's  !  Ef,"  she  continued,  after  another  pause 
— "  ef  so  be  any  pusson  present  is  nigh  kin  ter  de 
lately  deceasted  daid  corpse,  let  'em  please  ter  step 
in  fust  at  de  haid  o'  de  line." 

A  half-minute  of  inquiring  silence  ensued,  and 
that  the  first  to  break  it  by  stepping  forward  was 
a  former  discarded  wife  of  the  deceased  caused 
no  comment.  She  led  by  the  hand  a  small  boy, 
whom  all  knew  to  be  the  dead  man's  son,  and  it 
was  with  distinct  deference  that  the  crowd  parted 
to  let  them  pass  in.  Just  as  they  were  entering, 
a  stir  was  heard  at  the  outer  door. 

"  Heah  comes  de  corpse's  mammy  and  daddy," 
one  said,  in  an  audible  whisper. 

It  was  true.  The  old  parents,  who  lived  some 
miles  distant,  had  just  arrived.  The  throng  had 
fallen  well  back  now,  clearing  a  free  passage 


THE    WIDDER   JOHNSING  101 

across  the  room.  With  a  loud  groan  and  extend 
ed  arms,  Temperance  glided  down  the  opening  to 
meet  the  aged  couple,  who  sobbed  aloud  as  they 
tremulously  followed  her  into  the  presence  of  the 
dead. 

The  former  wife  and  awe-stricken  child  had  al 
ready  entered,  and  that  they  all,  with  the  new- 
made  widow,  who  rocked  to  and  fro  at  the  head 
of  the  corpse,  wept  together,  confessed  sharers  in 
a  common  sorrow,  was  quite  in  the  natural  order 
of  things. 

The  procession  of  guests  now  began  to  pass 
through,  making  a  circuit  of  the  table  on  which 
the  body  lay,  and  as  they  moved  out  the  door, 
some  one  raised  a  hymn.  A  group  in  the  yard 
caught  it  up,  and  soon  the  woods  echoed  with  the 
weird  rhythmic  melody.  All  night  long  the  sing 
ing  continued,  carried  along  by  new  recruits  as 
the  first  voices  grew  weary  and  dropped  out.  If 
there  was  some  giggling  and  love-making  among 
the  young  people,  it  was  discreetly  kept  in  the 
shadowy  corners,  and  wounded  no  one's  feel 
ings. 

The  widow  took  no  rest  during  the  night. 
When  exhausted  from  violent  emotion,  she  fell 
into  a  rhythmic  moan,  accompanied  by  corre 
sponding  swaying  to  and  fro  of  her  body  —  a 
movement  at  once  unyielding  and  restful. 

The  church  folk  were  watching  her  with  a  keen 
interest,  and  indeed  so  were  the  worldlings,  for 
this  was  Lize  Ann's  third  widowhood  within  the 


102  THE    WIDDEB    JOHNSING 

short  space  of  five  years,  and  each  of  the  other 
funerals  had  been  practically  but  an  inaugural  ser 
vice  to  a  most  remarkable  career.  As  girl  first, 
and  twice  as  widow,  she  had  been  a  conspicuous 
and,  if  truth  must  be  told,  rather  a  notorious  fig 
ure  in  colored  circles.  Three  times  she  had  vol 
untarily  married  into  quiet  life,  and  welcomed 
with  her  chosen  partner  the  seclusion  of  wedded 
domesticity  ;  but  during  the  intervals  she  had 
played  promiscuous  havoc  with  the  matrimonial 
felicity  of  her  neighbors,  to  such  an  extent  that 
it  was  a  confessed  relief  when  she  had  finally 
walked  up  the  aisle  with  Jake  Johnson,  as,  by 
taking  one  woman's  husband,  she  had  brought 
peace  of  mind  to  a  score  of  anxious  wives. 

It  is  true  that  Jake  had  been  lawfully  wedded 
to  the  first  woman,  but  the  ceremony  had  occurred 
in  another  parish  some  years  before,  and  was 
practically  obsolete,  and  so  the  church,  taking  its 
cue  from  nature,  which  does  not  set  eyes  in  the 
back  of  one's  head,  made  no  indiscreet  retrospec 
tive  investigations,  but,  in  the  professed  guise  of 
a  peace-maker,  pronounced  its  benediction  upon 
the  new  pair. 

The  deserted  wife  had  soon  likewise  repaired 
her  loss,  whether  with  benefit  of  clergy  or  not,  it 
is  not  ours  to  say,  but  when  she  returned  to  mourn 
at  the  funeral,  it  was  not  as  one  who  had  refused 
to  be  comforted.  She  felt  a  certain  secret  triumph 
in  bringing  her  boy  to  gaze  for  the  last  time  upon 
the  face  of  his  father.  It  was  more  than  the  child- 


THE    WIDDER    JOHNSING  103 

less  woman,  who  sat,  acknowledged  chief  mourn 
er,  at  the  head  of  the  corpse  could  do. 

There  was  a  look  of  half-savage  defiance  upon 
her  face  as  she  lifted  the  little  fellow  up  and  said, 
in  an  audible  voice  : 

"  Take  one  las'  look  at  yo'  daddy,  Jakey.  Dat's 
yo'  own  Gord-blessed  father,  an'  you  ain't  nuver 
gwine  see  'im  no  mo',  tell  yer  meet  'im  in  de  King 
dom  come,  whar  dey  ain't  no  marryin',  neither 
giviri*  in  marriage  " ;  and  she  added,  in  an  under 
tone,  with  a  significant  sniffle,  "nur  borryin', 
nuther." 

She  knew  that  she  whom  it  could  offend  would 
not  hear  this  last  remark,  as  her  ears  were  filled 
with  her  own  wails,  but  the  words  were  not  lost 
upon  the  crowd. 

The  little  child,  frightened  and  excited,  began 
to  cry  aloud. 

"  Let  'im  cry,"  said  one.  "  D'ain't  nobody  got 
a  better  right." 

"  He  feel  his  loss,  po'  chile  !" 

"  Blood's  thicker'n  water  ev'y  time." 

"  Yas,  blood  will  tell.  Look  like  de  po'  chile's 
heart  was  rendered  in  two  quick's  he  looked  at  'is 
pa." 

Such  sympathetic  remarks  as  these,  showing 
the  direction  of  the  ultimate  sentiment  of  the 
people,  reached  the  mother's  ears,  and  encouraged 
her  to  raise  her  head  a  fraction  higher  than  be 
fore,  as,  pacifying  the  weeping  child,  she  passed 
out  and  went  home. 


104  THE    WIDDEK    JOHNSINQ 

The  funeral  took  place  on  the  afternoon  fol 
lowing,  and,  to  the  surprise  of  all,  the  mourning 
widow  behaved  with  wonderful  self-control  during 
all  the  harrowing  ceremony. 

Only  when  the  last  clod  fell  upon  the  grave  did 
she  throw  up  her  hands,  and  with  a  shriek  fall 
over  in  a  faint,  and  have  to  be  "toted"  back  to 
the  wagon  in  which  she  had  come. 

If  some  were  curious  to  see  what  direction  her 
grief  would  take,  they  had  some  time  to  wait.  She 
had  never  before  taken  long  to  declare  herself, 
and  on  each  former  occasion  the  declaration  had 
been  one  of  war — a  worldly,  rioting,  rollicking 
war  upon  the  men. 

During  both  her  previous  widowhoods  she  had 
danced  longer  and  higher,  laughed  oftener  and 
louder,  dressed  more  gaudily  and  effectively,  than 
all  the  women  on  three  contiguous  plantations  put 
together  ;  and  when,  in  these  well  -  remembered 
days,  she  had  passed  down  the  road  on  Sunday 
evenings,  and  chosen  to  peep  over  her  shoulders 
with  dreamy  half-closed  eyes  at  some  special  man 
whom  it  pleased  her  mood  to  ensnare,  he  had  no 
more  been  able  to  help  following  her  than  he  had 
been  able  to  help  lying  to  his  wife  or  sweetheart 
about  it  afterward. 

The  sympathy  expressed  for  her  at  Jake's  funer 
al  had  been  sincere.  No  negro  ever  resists  any 
noisy  demonstration  of  grief,  and  each  of  her 
moans  and  screams  had  found  responsive  echo  in 
more  than  one  sympathetic  heart. 


THE    WIDDER   JOHNSING  105 

But  now  the  funeral  was  over,  Jake  was  dead 
and  gone,  and  the  state  of  affairs  so  exact  a  resto 
ration  to  a  recent  well-remembered  condition  that 
it  was  not  strange  that  the  sisters  wondered  with 
some  concern  what  she  would  do. 

They  had  felt  touched  when  she  had  fainted 
away  at  the  funeral,  and  yet  there  were  those,  and 
among  them  his  good  wife,  who  had  not  failed  to 
observe  that  she  had  fallen  squarely  into  Pete 
Richards's  arms. 

Now  every  one  knew  that  she  had  once  led  Pete 
a  dance,  and  that  for  a  time  it  seemed  a  question 
whether  he  or  Jake  Johnson  should  be  the  coming 
man. 

Of  course  this  opportune  fainting  might  have 
been  accidental,  and  it  may  be  that  Pete's  mother 
was  supercensorious  when,  on  her  return  from  the 
funeral,  she  had  said,  as  she  lit  her  pipe: 

"  Dat  gal  Lize  Ann  is  a  she-devil." 

But  her  more  discreet  daughter-in-law,  except 
ing  that  she  thrashed  the  children  all  round,  gave 
no  sign  that  she  was  troubled. 

For  the  first  few  months  of  her  recovered  wid 
owhood  Lize  Ann  was  conspicuous  only  by  her 
absence  from  congregations  of  all  sorts,  as  well  as 
by  her  mournful  and  persistent  refusal  to  speak 
with  any  one  on  the  subject  of  her  grief,  or,  in 
deed,  to  speak  at  all. 

There  was  neither  pleasure  nor  profit  in  sitting 
down  and  looking  at  a  person  who  never  opened 
her  lips,  and  so,  after  oft-repeated  but  ineffectual 


106  THE    WIDDER    JOHNSING 

visits  of  condolence,  the  sisters  finally  stopped  vis 
iting  her  cabin. 

They  saw  that  she  had  philosophically  taken  up 
the  burden  of  practical  life  again,  in  the  shape  of 
a  family  washing,  which  she  carried  from  the  vil 
lage  to  her  cabin  poised  on  her  head,  but  the  old 
abandon  had  departed  from  her  gait,  and  those 
who  chanced  to  meet  her  in  the  road  said  that  her 
only  passing  recognition  was  a  groan. 

Alone  in  her  isolated  cabin,  the  woman  so  re 
cently  celebrated  for  her  social  proclivities  ranged 
her  wash-tubs  against  the  wall  ;  alone  she  soaked, 
washed,  rinsed,  starched,  and  ironed ;  and,  when 
the  week's  routine  of  labor  was  over,  alone  she  sat 
within  her  cabin  door  to  rest. 

For  a  long  time  old  Nancy  Price  or  Hester  Ann 
Jennings,  the  two  superannuated  old  crones  on 
the  plantation,  moved  by  curiosity  and  an  irresisti 
ble  impulse  to  "talk  erligion"  to  so  fitting  a  sub 
ject,  had  continued  occasionally  to  drop  in  to  see 
the  silent  woman,  but  they  always  came  away 
shaking  their  heads  and  declining  to  stake  their 
reputations  on  any  formulated  prophecy  as  to  just 
how,  when,  where,  or  in  what  direction  Lize  Ann 
would  come  out  of  her  grief.  That  she  was  delib 
erately  poising  herself  for  a  spring  they  felt  sure, 
and  yet  their  only  prognostications  were  always 
prudently  ambiguous. 

When,  however,  the  widow  had  consistently  for 
five  long  months  maintained  her  position  as  a 
broken-hearted  recluse  not  to  be  approached  or 


THE    WIDDER    JOHNSING  107 

consoled,  the  people  began  to  regard  her  with  a 
degree  of  genuine  respect ;  and  when  one  Sunday 
morning  the  gathering  congregation  discovered 
her  sitting  in  church,  a  solitary  figure  in  black,  on 
the  very  last  of  the  Amen  pews  in  the  corner, 
they  were  moved  to  sympathy. 

She  had  even  avoided  a  sensational  entrance 
by  coming  early.  Her  conduct  seemed  really  gen 
uine,  and  yet  it  must  be  confessed  that  even  in 
view  of  the  doleful  figure  she  made,  there  were 
several  women  present  who  were  a  little  less  com 
fortable  beside  their  lovers  and  husbands  after 
they  saw  her. 

If  the  wives  had  but  known  it,  however,  they 
need  have  had  no  fear.  Jake's  deserted  wife 
and  child  had  always  weighed  painfully  upon 
Lize  Ann's  consciousness.  Even  after  his  death 
they  had  come  in,  diverting  and  intercepting 
sympathy  that  she  felt  should  have  been  hers. 
When  she  married  again  she  would  have  an  un 
encumbered,  free  man,  all  her  own. 

As  she  was  first  at  service  to-day,  she  was  last 
to  depart,  and  so  pointedly  did  she  wait  for  the 
others  to  go,  that  not  a  sister  in  church  had  the 
temerity  to  approach  her  with  a  welcoming  hand, 
or  to  join  her  as  she  walked  home.  And  this  was 
but  the  beginning.  From  this  time  forward  the 
little  mourning  figure  was  at  every  meeting,  and 
when  the  minister  begged  such  as  desired  salva 
tion  to  remain  to  be  prayed  for,  she  knelt  and 
stayed.  When,  however,  the  elders  or  sisters  sought 


108  THE    WIDDER    JOHNSINQ 

her  out,  and,  kneeling  beside  her,  questioned  her 
as  to  the  state  of  her  soul,  she  only  groaned  and 
kept  silence. 

The  brethren  were  really  troubled.  They  had 
never  encountered  sorrow  or  conviction  of  sin 
quite  so  obstinate,  so  intangible,  so  speechless,  as 
this.  The  minister,  Brother  Langford,  had  re 
membered  her  sorrowing  spirit  in  an  impersonal 
way,  and  had  colored  his  sermons  with  tender 
appeals  to  such  as  mourned  and  were  heavy-laden 
with  grief. 

But  the  truth  was,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Langford, 
a  tall,  handsome  bachelor  of  thirty  years  or  there 
abouts,  was  regarded  as  the  best  catch  in  the  par 
ish,  and  had  he  been  half  so  magnetic  in  his  per 
sonality  or  half  so  persuasive  of  speech,  all  the 
dusky  maids  in  the  country  would  have  been  set 
ting  their  feathered  caps  for  him. 

When  he  conducted  the  meetings  there  were 
always  so  many  boisterous  births  into  the  King 
dom  all  around  him,  when  the  regenerate  called 
aloud  as  they  danced,  swayed,  or  swooned  for 
"  Brother  Langford,"  that  he  had  not  found  time 
to  seek  out  the  silent  mourners,  and  so  had  not 
yet  found  himself  face  to  face  with  the  widow. 
Finally,  however,  one  Sunday  night,  just  as  he 
passed  before  her,  Lize  Ann  heaved  one  of  her 
very  best  moans. 

He  was  on  his  knees  at  her  side  in  a  moment. 
Bending  his  head  very  low,  he  asked,  in  a  voice 
soft  and  tender,  laying  his  hand  the  while  gently 


THE    WIDDER   JOHNSING  109 

upon  her  shoulder,  "  'Ain't  you  f oun'  peace  yit, 
Sis'  Johnsing  ?" 
She  groaned  again. 

"  What  is  yo'  mos'  chiefes'  sorrer,  Sister  John- 
sing  ?  Is  yo'  heart  mo'  grieveder  f 'om  partin'  wid 
yo'  dear  belovin'  pardner,  or  is  yo'  soul  weighted 
down  wid  a  sense  o'  inhuman  guilt  ?  Speak  out 
an'  tell  me,  my  sister,  how  yo'  trouble  seem  ter 
shape  itse'f." 

But  the  widow,  though  she  turned  up  to  him 
her  dry  beseeching  eyes,  only  groaned  again. 

"  Can't  you  speak  ter  yo'  preacher,  Sis'  John- 
sing?  He  crave  in  'is  heart  ter  he'p  you." 

Again  she  looked  into  his  face,  and  now,  with 
quivering  lip,  began  to  speak  :  "  I  can't  talk  heah, 
Brer  Langford  ;  I  ain't  fittin';  my  heart's  clean 
broke.  I  ain't  nothin'  but  des  a  miser'ble  out- 
cas'.  Seem  lak  even  Gord  'isse'f  done  cas'  me 
orf.  I  des  comes  an'  goes  lak  a  hongry  suck-aig 
dorg  wha'  nobody  don't  claim,  a-skulkin'  roun1 
heah  in  a  back  seat  all  by  my  lone  se'f,  tryin'  ter 
pick  up  a  little  crumb  wha'  fall  f'om  de  table. 
But  seem  lak  de  feas'  is  too  good  fur  me.  I  goes 
back  ter  my  little  dark  cabin  mo'  harder-hearted 
an'  mo'  sinf  uler  'n  I  was  bef  o'.  Des  de  ve'y  glimsh 
o'  dat  empty  cabin  seem  lak  hit  turn  my  heart  ter 
stone." 

She  dropped  her  eyes,  and  as  she  bent  forward, 
a  tear  fell  upon  the  young  man's  hand. 

His  voice  was  even  tenderer  than  before  when 
he  spoke  again.     "  It  is  a  hard  lot,  my  po'  sister, 


HO  THE    WIDDER    JOHNSING 

but  I  am  positive  sho'  dat  de  sisters  an'  brers  o'  de 
chu'ch  would  come  ter  you  an'  try  ter  comfort  yo' 
soul  ef  you  would  give  'em  courage  fur  ter  do  so." 

"You  don't  know  me,  Brer  Langford,  er  you 
wouldn't  name  sech  a  word  ter  me.  I's  a  sinner, 
an'  a  sinner  what  love  sin.  Look  lak  de  wus  a  sin 
is,  de  mo'  hit  tas'es  lak  sugar  in  my  mouf .  I  can't 
trus'  myse'f  ter  set  down  an'  talk  wid  dese  heah 
brers  an'  sisters  wha'  I  knows  is  one-half  sperit- 
yal  an'  fo'-quarters  playin'  ketcher  wid  de  devil. 
I  can't  trus'  myse'f  wid'  em  tell  Gord  set  my  soul 
free  Pom  sin.  I'd  soon  be  howlin'  happy  on  de 
devil's  side  des  lak  I  was  befo',  facin'  two-forty 
on  de  shell  road  ter  perditiom." 

"  I  see,  my  po'  sister — I  see  whar  yo'  trouble 

lay." 

"  Yas,  an'  dat's  huccome  I  tooken  toV  yer,  'caze 
I  knowed  you  is  got  de  sperityal  eye  to  see  it. 
You  knows  I's  right  when  I  say  ter  you  dat  I 
ain't  gwine  set  down  in  my  cabin  an'  hoi'  speech 
wid  nobody  less'n  'tis  a  thoo-an'-thoo  sperityal 
pusson,  lak  a  preacher  o'  de  gorspil,  tell  my  soul 
is  safe.  An'  dey  ain't  no  minister  o'  de  sperit 
wha'  got  time  ter  come  an'  set  down  an'  talk  wid 
a  po'  ongordly  widder  pusson  lak  me.  I  don't 
spect  'em  ter  do  it.  De  shepherds  can't  teck  de 
time  to  run  an'  haid  orf  a  ole  frazzled-out  black 
sheep  lak  I  is,  what  'd  be  a  disgrace  ter  de  foP, 
anyway.  Dey  'bleege  ter  spen'  dey  time  a-coaxin' 
in  de  purty  sleek  yo'ng  friskin'  lambs,  an'  I  don't 
blame  'em." 


THE    WIDDER    JOHNSING  111 

"Don't  talk  dat-a-way,  Sis'  Johnsing — don't  talk 
dat-a-way.  Sence  you  done  specified  yo'  desire,  I'll 
call  an'  see  you,  an'  talk  an'  pray  wid  you  in  yo' 
cabin  whensomever  you  say  de  word.  I  knows  yo' 
home  is  kivered  by  a  cloud  o'  darkness  an'  sorrer. 
When  shill  I  come  to  you  ?" 

"  De  mos'  lonesomes'  time,  Brer  Langford,  an' 
de  time  what  harden  my  heart  de  mos',  is  in  de 
dark  berwilderin'  night-times  when  I  fus'  goes 
home.  Seem  lak  ef  I  c'd  des  have  some  reel 
Gordly  man  ter  come  in  wid  me,  an'  maybe  call 
out  some  little  passenger  o'  Scripture  to  comfort 
me,  tell  I  c'd  des  ter  say  git  usen  ter  de  lone- 
someness,  I  c'd  maybe  feel  mo'  cancelized  ter  de 
Divine  will.  But,  co'se,  I  don't  expect  no  yo'ng 
man  lak  you  is  ter  teck  de  trouble  ter  turn  out'n 
yo'  path  fur  sech  as  me." 

"  I  will  do  it,  Sis'  Johnsing,  an'  hit  will  be  a  act 
o'  pleasurable  Christianity.  When  de  meetV  is 
over,  ef  you  will  wait,  er  ef  you  will  walk  slow,  I 
will  overtaken  you  on  de  road  quick  as  I  shets  up 
de  church-house,  an'  I  pray  Gord  to  give  me  de 
seasonable  word  fur  yo'  comfort.  Amen,  an'  Gord 
bless  yer  !" 

Lize  Ann  had  nearly  reached  her  cabin  when 
the  reverend  brother,  stepping  forward,  gallantly 
placed  his  hand  beneath  her  elbow,  and  aided  her 
to  mount  the  one  low  step  which  led  to  her  door. 

As  they  entered  the  room,  he  produced  and 
struck  a  match,  while  she  presented  a  candle, 


112  THE    WIDDEB    JOHNSINO 

which  he  lit  and  placed  upon  the  table.  Neither 
had  yet  spoken.  If  he  had  his  word  ready,  the  sea 
son  for  its  utterance  seemed  not  to  have  arrived. 

"  'Scuse  my  manners,  Brer  Langf  ord,"  she  said, 
finally,  "  but  my  heart  is  so  full,  seem  lak  I  can't 
fine  speech.  Take  a  rockV-cheer  an'  set  down  tell 
I  stirs  de  fire  ter  meek  you  welcome  in  my  po'  lit 
tle  shanty." 

The  split  pine  which  she  threw  upon  the  coals 
brought  an  immediate  illumination,  and  as  the 
young  man  looked  about  the  apartment  he  could 
hardly  believe  his  eyes,  so  thorough  was  its  trans 
formation  since  he  had  seen  it  on  the  day  of  the 
funeral. 

The  hearth,  newly  i-eddened,  fairly  glowed  with 
warm  color,  and  the  gleaming  white  pine  floor 
seemed  fresh  from  the  carpenter's  plane.  Dainty 
white  muslin  curtains  hung  before  the  little  square 
windows,  and  from  the  shelves  a  dazzling  row  of 
tins  reflected  the  blazing  fire  a  dozen  times  from 
their  polished  surfaces. 

The  widow  leaned  forward  before  him,  stirring 
the  fire ;  and  when  his  eyes  fell  upon  her,  his  as 
tonishment  confirmed  his  speechlessness.  She  had 
removed  her  black  bonnet,  and  the  heavy  shawl, 
which  had  enveloped  her  figure,  had  fallen  behind, 
her  into  her  chair.  What  he  saw  was  a  round, 
trig,  neatly  clad,  youngish  woman,  whose  face, 
illumined  by  the  flickering  fire,  was  positively 
charming  in  its  piquant  assertion  of  grief.  Across 
her  shapely  bosom  lay,  neatly  folded,  a  snowy 


THE    WIDDER   JOHNSINQ  113 

kerchief,  less  white  only  than  her  pearly  teeth, 
as,  smiling  through  her  sadness,  she  exclaimed, 
as  she  turned  to  her  guest : 

"Lor1  bless  my  soul,  ef  I 'ain't  raked  out  a  sweet 
'tater  out'n  deze  coals !  I  'feerd  you'll  be  clair 
disgusted  at  sech  onmannerly  doin's,  Brer  Lang- 
ford  ;  but  when  dey  ain't  no  company  heah,  I  des 
kivers  up  my  'taters  wid  ashes  an'  piles  on  de  live 
coals,  an'  let  'em  cook.  I  don't  reck'n  you'd  even 
ter  say  look  at  a  roas'  'tater,  would  you,  Brer  Lang- 
ford?" 

The  person  addressed  was  rubbing  his  hands 
together  and  chuckling.  "  Ef  yer  tecks  my  jedg- 
mint,  Sis'  Johnsing,  on  de  pretater  question,  roas'- 
in'  is  de  onies  way  to  cook  'em." 

His  hostess  had  already  risen,  and  before  he 
could  remonstrate  she  had  drawn  up  a  little  ta 
ble,  lifted  the  potato  from  its  bed,  and  laid  it  on 
a  plate  before  him. 

"Ef  you  will  set  down  an'  eat  a  roas'  'tater 
in  my  miser'ble  little  cabin,  Brer  Langford,  I 
'clar'  fo'  gracious  hit  '11  raise  my  sperits  might 
ily.  Gord  knows  I  wushes  I  had  some'h'n  good 
to  offer  you,  a-comin'  in  out'n  de  col';  but  ef 
you'll  please,  sir,  have  de  mannerliness  ter  hoi' 
de  candle,  I'll  empty  my  ole  cupboard  clean  inside 
outen  but  I'll  fin'  you  somdWn  'nother  to  spressif  y 
yo'  welcome." 

Langford  rose,  and  as  he  held  the  light  to  the 
open  safe,  his  eyes  fairly  glared.  He  was  hungry, 
and  the  snowy  shelves  were  covered  with  open 
8 


114  THE   WIDDEB   JOHNSING 

vessels  of  tempting  food,  all  more  or  less  broken, 
but  savory  as  to  odor,  and  most  inviting. 

"I  'clare,  Sis'  Johnsing  —  I  'clare  !"  were  the 
only  words  that  the  man  of  eloquent  speech  found 
to  express  his  appreciation  and  joy,  and  his  enter 
tainer  continued  : 

"  Dis  heah  cupboard  mecks  me  'shame',  Brer 
Langford.  Dey  ain't  a  thing  fittin'  fur  sech  as 
you  in  it.  Heah's  a  pan  o'  col'  'tater  pone  an' 
some  cabbage  an'  side  meat,  an'  dis  heah's  a  few 
ords  an'  eens  o'  fried  chicken  an'  a  little  passel  o' 
spare-ribs,  piled  in  wid  co'n-brade  scraps.  Hit 
don't  look  much,  but  hit's  all  clean.  Heah,  you 
gimme  de  candle,  an'  you  retch  'em  all  down, 
please,  sir ;  an'  I  ain't  shore,  but  ef  I  don't  disre- 
member,  dey's  de  bes'  half  a  loaf  o'  reeson-cake 
'way  back  in  de  fur  corner.  Dat's  hit.  Now, 
dat's  some'h'n  like.  An'  now  pass  down  de  but 
ter  ;  an'  ef  yer  wants  a  tumbler  o'  sweet  milk  wid 
yo'  'tater,  you'll  haf  ter  hop  an'  go  fetch  it.  Lis'n 
ter  me,  fur  Gord  sake,  talkin'  ter  Brer  Langford 
same  as  I'd  talk  ter  a  reg'lar  plantation  nigger !" 

Langford  hesitated.  "Less'n  you  desires  de 
sweet  milk,  Sis'  Johnsing — " 

"  I  does  truly  lak  a  swaller  o'  sweet  milk  wid 
my  'tater,  Brer  Langford,  but  seem  lak  'f o'  I'd  git 
itfurmyse'f  I'd  do  widout  it.  Won't  you,  please, 
sir,  teck  de  candle  an'  fetch  it  fur  me?  Go  right 
thoo  my  room.  Hit's  in  a  bottle,  a-settin'  outside 
de  right-han'  winder  des  as  you  go  in." 

Langford  could  not  help  glancing  about  the 


THE    WIDDER   JOHNSING  115 

widow's  chamber  as  he  passed  through.  If  the 
other  room  was  cozy  and  clean,  this  one  was 
charming.  The  white  bed,  dazzling  in  its  snowy 
fluted  frills,  reminded  him  of  its  owner,  as  she  sat 
in  all  her  starched  freshness  to-night.  The  pol 
ished  pine  floor  here  was  nearly  covered  with 
neatly  fringed  patches  of  carpet,  suggestive  of 
housewifely  taste  as  well  as  luxurious  comfort. 

He  had  returned  with  the  bottle,  and  was  seat 
ing  himself,  when  the  disconsolate  widow  actually 
burst  into  a  peal  of  laughter. 

"  Lord  save  my  soul !"  she  exclaimed,  "  ef  he 
'ain't  gone  an'  fetched  a  bottle  o'  beer !  You  is  a 
caution,  Brer  Langford !  I  wouldn't  'a'  had  you 
know  I  had  dat  beer  in  my  house  fur  nothin'. 
When  I  was  f eelin'  so  po'ly  in  my  f us'  grief,  seem 
lak  I  craved  sperityal  comfort,  an'  I  went  an' 
bought  a  whole  lot  o'  lager-beer.  I  'lowed  maybe 
I  c'd  drink  my  sorrer  down,  but  'twarn't  no  use. 
I  c'd  drink  beer  all  night,  an'  hit  wouldn't  nuver 
bring  nobody  to  set  in  dat  rockin'-cheer  by  my 
side  an'  teck  comfort  wid  me.  Does  you  think 
fur  a  perf esser  ter  teck  a  little  beer  ur  wine  when 
he  feels  a  nachel  faintiness  is  a  fatal  sin,  Brer 
Langford  ?" 

"  Why,  no,  Sis'  Johnsing.  Succumstances  alter 
cases,  an'  hit's  de  succumstances  o'  drinkirt  what 
mecks  de  altercations ;  an'  de  way  I  looks  at  it, 
a  Christian  man  is  de  onies  pusson  who  oughter 
dare  to  trus*  'isse'f  wid  de  wine  cup,  'caze  a  sinner 
don'  know  when  ter  stop." 


116  THE    WIDDER   JOHNSING 

"  Bat  soun'  mighty  reasonable,  Brer  Langford. 
An'  sence  you  fetched  de  beer,  now  you  'bleege  ter 
drink  it.  But  please,  sir,  go,  lak  a  good  man,  an7 
bring  my  milk,  on  de  tother  side  in  de  winder." 

The  milk  was  brought,  and  the  Rev.  Mr.  Lang- 
ford  was  soon  smacking  his  lips  over  the  best  sup 
per  it  had  been  his  ministerial  good  fortune  to 
enjoy  for  many  a  day. 

As  the  widow  raked  a  second  potato  from  the 
fire,  she  remarked,  in  a  tone  of  inimitable  pathos : 

"  Seem  lak  I  can't  git  usen  ter  cookin'  fur  one. 
I  cooks  fur  two  ev'y  day,  an'  somehow  I  fines  a 
little  spec  o'  comfort  in  lookin'  at  de  odd  po'tion, 
even  ef  I  has  ter  eat  it  myse'f.  De  secon'  'tater 
on  de  hyearth  seem  lak  hit  stan's  fur  company. 
Seein'  as  you  relishes  de  beer,  Brer  Langford,  I's 
proud  you  made  de  mistake  an'  fetched  it.  Gord 
knows  somebody  better  drink  it !  I  got  a  whole 
passel  o'  bottles  in  my  trunk,  an'  I  don't  know 
what  ter  do  wid  'em.  A  man  what  wuck  an'  talk 
an'  preach  hard  as  you  does,  he  need  a  little  some- 
'h'n'  'nother  ter  keep  'is  cour'ge  up." 

It  was  an  hour  past  midnight  when  finally  the 
widow  let  her  guest  out  the  back  door,  and  as  she 
directed  him  how  to  reach  home  by  a  short-cut 
through  her  field,  she  said,  while  she  held  his  hand 
in  parting  : 

"  Gord  will  bless  you  fur  dis  night,  Brer  Lang- 
ford,  fur  you  is  truly  sakerficed  yo'se'f  fur  a  po' 
sinner  ;  an'  I  b'lieve  dey's  mo'  true  'ligion  in  com- 
fortin'  a  po'  lonely  widderless  'oman  lak  I  is,  what 


THE   WIDDER    JOHNSINQ  117 

'ain't  got  nobody  to  stan'  by  'er,  dan  in  all  de  ser 
mons  a-goin';  an'  now  I  gwine  turn  my  face  back 
todes  my  lonely  fireside  wid  a  better  hope  an'  a 
firmer  trus\  'caze  I  knows  de  love  o'  Gord  done 
sont  you  ter  me.  My  po'  little  brade  an'  meat 
warn't  highfalutin'  nur  fine,  but  you  is  shared  it 
wid  me  lak  a  Christian,  an'  I  gi'n  it  ter  you  wid  a 
free  heart." 

Langford  returned  the  pressure  of  her  hand, 
and  even  shook  it  heartily  during  his  parting 
speech  : 

"  Good  -night,  my  dear  sister,  an'  Gord  bless 
you  !  I  feels  mo'  courageous  an'  strenk'n'd  my- 
se'f  sence  I  have  shared  yo'  lonely  fireside,  an', 
please  Gord,  I  will  make  it  my  juty  as  well  as  my 
pleasure  to  he'p  you  in  a  similar  manner  when- 
somever  you  desires  my  presence.  I  rejoices  to 
see  that  you  is  tryin'  wid  a  brave  heart  to  rise 
f'om  yo'  sorrer.  Keep  good  cheer,  my  sister,  an' 
remember  dat  the  Gord  o'  Aberham  an'  Isaac  an' 
Jacob — de  patriots  o'  de  Lord — is  also  de  friend 
ter  de  fatherless  an*  widders,  an'  to  them  that  are 
desolate  an'  oppressed." 

With  this  beautiful  admonition,  and  a  last  dis 
tinct  pressure  of  the  hand,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Langford 
disappeared  in  the  darkness,  carefully  fastening 
the  top  button  of  his  coat  as  he  went,  as  if  to 
cover  securely  the  upper  layer  of  raisin-cake  which 
still  lay,  for  want  of  lower  space,  just  beneath  it 
within. 

He  never  felt  better  in  his  life. 


118  THE    WIDDER   JOHNSINQ 

The  widow  watched  his  retreating  shadow  until 
she  dimly  saw  one  dark  leg  rise  over  the  rail  as 
he  scaled  the  garden  fence ;  then  coming  in,  she 
hooked  the  door,  and  throwing  herself  on  the 
floor,  rolled  over  and  over,  laughing  until  she 
cried,  verily. 

"  Stan'  back,  gals,  stan'  back !"  she  exclaimed,  ris 
ing.  "  Stan'  back,  I  say  !  A  widder  done  haided 
yer  off  wid  a  cook-pot !"  With  eyes  fairly  danc 
ing,  she  resumed  her  seat  before  the  fire.  She  was 
too  much  elated  for  sleep  yet.  "  I  'clare  'fo'  gra 
cious,  I  is  a  devil  !"  she  chuckled.  "  Po'  Alick — 
an'  po'  Steve — an'  po'  Jake  !"  she  continued,  paus 
ing  after  each  name  with  something  that  their 
spiritual  presences  might  have  interpreted  as  a 
sigh  if  they  were  affectionately  hovering  near 
her.  "But,"  she  added,  her  own  thoughts  sup 
plying  the  connection,  "  Brer  Langford  gwine  be 
de  stylishes'  one  o'  de  lot."  And  then  she  really 
sighed.  "  I  mus'  go  buy  some  mo'  beer.  Better 
git  two  bottles.  He  mought  ax  fur  mo',  bein'  as 
I  got  a  trunkful."  And  here  alone  in  her  cabin 
she  roared  aloud.  "  I  does  wonder  huccome  I 
come  ter  be  sech  a  devil,  anyhow  ?  I  'lowed  I 
was  safe  ter  risk  de  beer.  Better  git  a  dozen 
bottles,  I  reck'n ;  give  'im  plenty  rope,  po'  boy ! 
Well,  Langford  honey,  good-night  fur  to-night ! 
But  perpare,  yo'ng  man,  perpare  !"  And  chuc 
kling  as  she  went,  she  passed  into  her  own  room 
and  went  to  bed. 

The  young  minister  was  as  good  as  his  promise, 


THE    WIDDHR   JOHNSING  119 

and  during  the  next  two  months  he  never  failed 
to  stop  after  every  evening  meeting  to  look  after 
the  spiritual  condition  of  the  "  widder  Johnsing," 
while  she,  with  the  consummate  skill  of  a  prac 
tised  hand,  saw  to  it  that  without  apparent  fore 
thought  her  little  cupboard  should  always  supply 
a  material  entertainment,  full,  savory,  and  varied. 
If  on  occasion  she  lamented  a  dearth  of  cold  dish 
es,  it  was  that  she  might  insist  on  sharing  her 
breakfast  with  her  guest,  when,  producing  from 
her  magic  safe  a  ready-dressed  spring  chicken  or 
squirrel,  she  would  broil  it  upon  the  coals  in  his 
presence,  and  the  young  man  would  depart  thor 
oughly  saturated  with  the  odor  of  her  delightful 
hospitality. 

Langford  had  heard  things  about  this  woman 
in  days  gone  by,  but  now  he  was  pleased  to  real 
ize  that  they  had  all  been  malicious  inventions 
prompted  by  jealousy.  Had  he  commanded  the 
adjectives,  he  would  have  described  her  as  the 
most  generous,  hospitable,  spontaneous,  sympa 
thetic,  vivacious,  and  witty,  as  well  as  the  most 
artless  of  women.  As  it  was,  he  thought  of  her 
a  good  deal  between  visits  ;  and  whether  the 
thought  moved  backward  or  forward,  whether  it 
took  shape  as  a  memory  or  an  anticipation,  he 
somehow  unconsciously  smacked  his  lips  and  swal 
lowed.  And  yet,  when  one  of  the  elders  ques 
tioned  him  as  to  the  spiritual  state  of  the  still 
silent  mourner,  he  knit  his  brow  and  answered, 
with  a  sigh  : 


120  THE    WIDDER   JOHNSING 

"  It  is  hard  ter  say,  my  brothers — it  is  hard  ter 
say.  De  ole  lady  do  nourish  an'  cherish  'er  grief 
mightily ;  but  yit,  ef  we  hoP  off  an'  don't  crowd 
Jer,  I  trus'  she'll  come  thoo  on  de  Lord's  side  yit." 

If  there  had  been  the  ghost  of  a  twinkle  in  his 
interlocutor's  eye,  it  died  out,  abashed  at  itself  at 
this  pious  and  carefully  framed  reply.  The  wid 
ow  was  indeed  fully  ten  years  Langford's  senior 
— a  discrepancy  as  much  exaggerated  by  outward 
circumstances  as  it  was  minimized  in  their  fire 
side  relations. 

So  matters  drifted  on  for  a  month  longer.  The 
dozen  bottles  of  beer  had  been  followed  by  a 
second,  and  these  again  by  a  half-dozen.  This 
last  reduced  purchase  of  course  had  its  meaning. 
Langford  was  reaching  the  end  of  his  tether.  At 
last  there  were  but  two  bottles  left.  It  was  Sun 
day  night  again. 

The  little  cupboard  had  been  furnished  with 
unusual  elaboration,  and  the  savory  odors  which 
emanated  from  its  shelves  would  have  filled  the 
room  but  for  the  all-pervading  essence  of  berga- 
mot  with  which  the  widow  had  recklessly  deluged 
her  hair.  Indeed,  her  entire  toilet  betrayed  ex 
ceptional  care  to-night. 

She  had  not  gone  to  church,  and  as  it  was  near 
the  hour  for  dismissal,  she  was  a  trifle  nervous, 
feeling  confident  that  the  minister  would  stop  in, 
ostensibly  to  inquire  the  cause  of  her  absence. 
She  had  tried  this  before,  and  he  had  not  disap 
pointed  her. 


THE   WIDDER   JOHNSING  121 

Finally  she  detected  his  familiar  announce 
ment,  a  clearing  of  his  throat,  as  he  approached 
the  door. 

"  Lif '  up  de  latch  an'  walk  in,  Brer  Wolf,"  she 
laughingly  called  to  him ;  and  as  he  entered  she 
added,  "Look  lak  you  come  in  answer  to  my 
thoughts,  Brer  Langford." 

"Is  dat  so,  Sis'  Johnsing?"  he  replied,  chuck 
ling  with  delight.  "I  knowed  sowe'AV  'nother 
drawed  me  clean  over  f 'om  de  chu'ch  in  de  po'in'- 
down  rain." 

"Is  it  a-rainin'?  I  'clare,  I  see  yer  brung 
yo'  umbereZy  but  settV  heah  by  de  fire,  I  nuver 
studies  'bout  de  elemints.  I  been  studyin'  'bout 
some'h'n'  mo'n  rain  or  shine,  ./tell  yer." 

"Is  yer,  Sis'  Johnsing?  What  you  been  study- 
in"bout?" 

"  What  I  been  studyin'  'bout  ?  Nemmine  what 
I  been  studyin'  'bout !  I  studyin'  'bout  Brer 
Langford  now.  De  po'  man  look  so  tired  an'  fraz 
zled  out,  'is  eyes  looks  des  lak  dorg-wood  blor- 
soms.  You  is  des  nachelly  preached  down,  Brer 
Langford,  an'  you  needs  a  morsel  o'  some'h'n' 
'nother  ter  stiddy  yo'  cornstitutiom."  She  rose 
forthwith,  and  set  about  arranging  the  young 
man's  supper. 

"  But  you  'ain't  tol'  me  yit  huccome  you  'ain't 
come  ter  chu'ch  ter-night,  Sis'  Johnsing?" 

"Nemmine  'bout  dat  now.  I  ain't  studyin' 
'bout  gwine  ter  chu'ch  now.  I  des  studyin'  'bout 
how  ter  induce  de  size  o'  yo'  eyes  down  ter  dey 


123  THE    WIDDER    JOHNSING 

nachel  porportiora.  Heah,  teck  de  shovel,  an'  rake 
out  a  han'f  ul  o'  coals,  please,  sir,  an*  I'll  set  dis 
pan  o'  rolls  ter  bake.  Dat's  hit.  Now  kiver  de 
led  good  wid  live  coals  an'  ashes.  Dat's  a  man ! 
Now  time  you  wrastle  wid  de  j'ints  o'  dis  roas' 
guinea-hen,  an'  teck  de  corkscrew  an'  perscribe 
fur  dis  beer  bottle,  and  go  fetch  de  fresh  butter 
out'n  de  winder,  de  rolls  '11  be  a-singin'  '  Now  is 
de  accepted  time !' " 

It  was  no  wonder  the  young  man  thought  her 
charming. 

Needless  to  say,  the  feast,  seasoned  by  a  steady 
flow  of  humor,  was  perfect.  But  all  things  earthly 
have  an  end,  and  so,  by-and-by,  it  was  all  over. 
A  pattering  rain  without  served  to  enhance  the 
genial  in-door  charm,  but  it  was  time  to  go. 

"  Well,  Sis'  Johnsing,  hit's  a-gittin'  on  time  fur 
me  ter  be  a-movin',"  said  the  poor  fellow  at  length, 
for  he  hated  to  leave. 

"  Yas,  I  knows  it  is,  Brer  Langf ord,"  the  hostess 
answered,  with  a  tinge  of  sadness,  "  an'  dat  ain't 
de  wust  of  it." 

"  How  does  you  mean,  Sis'  Johnsing  ?" 

"'Ain't  I  tol'  yer,  Brer  Langf  ord,  ter-night  dat 
my  thoughts  was  wid  you  ?  Don't  look  at  me  so 
quizzical,  please,  sir,  'caze  I  got  a  heavy  sorrer  in 
my  heart." 

"A  sorrer  'bout  me,  Sis'  Johnsing  ?     How  so  ?" 

"  Brer  Langf  ord — I — I  been  thinkin'  'bout  you 
all  day,  an' — an' — ter  come  right  down  ter  de 
p'int,  I — I — "  She  bit  her  lip  and  hesitated.  "  I 


THE    WIDDER   JOHNSING  123 

'feerd  I  done  put  off  what  I  ought  ter  said  ter  you 
tell  look  lak  hit  '11  'mos'  bre'k  my  heart  to  say  it." 

"  Speak  out,  fur  Gord  sake,  Sis'  Johnsing,  an' 
ease  yo'  min' !  What  is  yo'  trouble  ?" 

She  seemed  almost  crying.  "You — you — you 
mustn't  come  heah  no  mo',  Brer  Langford." 

«  Who— me  ?  Wh-wh-what  is  I  done,  Sis'  John- 
sing?" 

"My  Gord  !  how  kin  I  say  it?  You  'ain't  done 
nothin',  my  dear  f  rien'.  You  has  been  Gord's  bless- 
in'  ter  me ;  but — but — I  'clare  'fo'  Gord,  how  Mn 
I  say  de  word  ?  But — don't  you  see  yo'se'f  how 
de  succumstances  stan'?  You  is  a  yo'ng  man 
li'ble  to  fall  in  love  wid  any  lakly  yo'ng  gal  any 
day,  an'  ter  git  married,  an',  of  co'se,  dat's  right ; 
but  don't  you  see  dat  ef  a  po'  lonesome  'oman  lak 
me  put  too  much  'pendence  orn  a  yo'ng  man  lak 
you  is,  de  time  gwine  come  when  he  gwine  git 
tired  a-walkin'  all  de  way  f 'om  chu'ch  in  de  po'in'- 
down  rain  des  fur  charity  ter  comfort  a  lonely 
sinner  pusson  lak  I  is;  an' — an'  settin'  heah  by 
myse'f  ter-night,  I  done  made  up  my  min'  dat  I 
gwine  scuse  you  f'om  dis  task  while  I  kin  stand 
it.  Of  co'se  I  don't  say  but  hit  '11  be  hard.  You 
is  tooken  me  by  de  han'  an'  he'ped  me  thoo  a 
dark  cloud,  but  you  an'  me  mus'  say  far'well  ter- 
night,  an'  you — you  mustn't  come  back  no  mo'." 

Her  face  was  buried  in  her  hands  now,  and  so 
she  could  not  see  her  guest's  storm-swept  visage 
as  he  essayed  to  answer  her. 

"You— you — you — you— talkin'  'bout  you  c'n 


124  THE    WIDDER    JOHNSING 

stan'  it,  Sis'  Johnsing,  an' — an' — seem  lak  you  's 
forgitt'n'  all  'bout  me.11  His  voice  was  trembling. 
'*  I — I  knows  I  ain't  nothin'  but  a  no-'count  yo'ng 
striplin',  so  ter  speak,  an'  you  is  a  mannerly  lady 
o'  speunce,  but  hit  do  seem  lak  'fo'  you'd  send  me 
away,  des  lak  ter  say  a  yaller  dorg,  you'd — you'd 
ax  me  could  /  stan'  it ;  an'— an',  tell  de  truf e,  I 
can't  stan'  it,  an'  I  ain't  gwine  stan'  it,  'less'n  you 
des  nachelly,  p'int-blank,  out  an'  out,  shets  de  do' 
in  my  face." 

"  Brer  Langf ord— " 

"Don't  you  say  Brer  Langford  ter  me  no  mo,' 
ef  you  please,  ma'am ;  an'— an'  I  ain't  gwine  call 
you  Sis'  Johnsing  no  mo',  nuther.  You  is  des,  so 
fur  as  you  consents,  hencefo'th  an'  f o'ever  mo',  in 
season  an'  out'n  season — des  my  Lize  Ann.  You 
knows  yo'se'f  dat  we  is  come  ter  be  each  one-'n'ners 
heart's  delight."  He  drew  his  chair  nearer,  and, 
leaning  forward,  seized  her  hand,  as  he  continued  : 
"  Leastwise,  dat's  de  way  my  heart  language  hit- 
se'f .  I  done  tooken  you  fur  my  sweetness  'fo'  ter- 
night,  Lize  Ann,  my  honey." 

But  why  follow  them  any  further?  Before  he 
left  her,  the  widow  had  consented,  with  becoming 
reluctance,  that  he  should  come  to  her  on  the  fol 
lowing  Sunday  with  the  marriage  license  in  his 
pocket,  on  one  condition,  and  upon  this  condition 
she  insisted  with  unyielding  pertinacity.  It  was 
that  Langford  should  feel  entirely  free  to  change 
his  mind,  and  to  love  or  to  marry  any  other  wom 
an  within  the  week  ensuing. 


THE    WIDDER   JOHNSINO  125 

Lize  Ann  arrived  late  at  service  on  the  follow 
ing  Sunday  evening.  Her  name  had  just  been  an 
nounced  as  a  happy  convert  who  rejoiced  in  new 
found  grace ;  and  when  she  stepped  demurely  up 
the  aisle,  arrayed  in  a  plain  white  dress,  her  face 
beaming  with  what  seemed  a  spiritual  peace,  the 
congregation  were  deeply  touched,  and,  eager  to 
welcome  her  into  the  fold,  began  to  press  forward 
to  extend  the  right  hand  of  fellowship  to  one  who 
had  come  in  through  so  much  tribulation.  It  was 
a  happy  time  all  round,  and  no  one  was  more  jubi 
lant  than  the  young  pastor,  who  seemed,  indeed, 
to  rejoice  more  over  this  recovered  lamb  than 
over  the  ninety-and-nine  within  the  fold  who  had 
not  gone  astray. 

The  young  girl  converts  of  recent  date,  never 
slow  to  respond  to  any  invitation  which  led  to  the 
chancel,  were  specially  demonstrative  in  their  af 
fectionate  welcome,  some  even  going  so  far  as  to 
embrace  the  new  "sister,"  while  others  were 
moved  to  shout  and  sing  as  they  made  the  tour  of 
the  aisles. 

When,  however,  as  soon  as  congratulations  were 
over,  it  was  formally  announced  that  this  identi 
cal  convert,  Mrs.  Eliza  Ann  Johnsing,  was  then 
and  there  to  be  joined  in  the  holy  estate  of  matri 
mony  to  the  Reverend  Julius  Caesar  Langf ord,  the 
shock  was  so  great  that  these  same  blessed  damo- 
sels  looked  blankly  one  upon  the  other  in  mute 
dismay  for  the  space  of  some  minutes,  and  when 
presently,  as  a  blushing  bride,  Lize  Ann  again 


126  THE   WIDDEB   JOHNSING 

turned  to  them  for  congratulations,  it  is  a  shame 
to  have  to  write  it,  but  they  actually  did  turn 
their  backs  and  refuse  to  speak  to  her. 

The  emotions  of  the  company  were  certainly 
very  much  mixed,  and  the  two  old  crones,  Nancy 
Price  and  Hester  Ann  Jennings,  sitting  side  by 
side  in  a  front  pew,  were  seen  to  nudge  each  other 
as,  their  old  sides  shaking  with  laughter,  they  ex 
claimed  : 

"What  I  to?  yer,  Sis'  Hest'  Ann?" 

"What  I  toP  yer,  Sis'  Nancy?" 

"Dat's  des  what  we  toP  one-'n'ner  Lize  Ann 
gwine  do  !" 

Though  no  guests  were  bidden  to  share  it,  the 
wedding  supper  in  the  little  cabin  that  night  was 
no  mean  affair,  and  when  Langf ord,  with  a  chuck 
ling,  half -embarrassed,  new -proprietary  air  drew 
the  cork  from  the  beer  bottle  beside  his  plate,  Lize 
Ann  said, 

"  Hit  do  do  me  good  ter  see  how  you  relishes 
dat  beer." 

But  she  did  not  mention  that  it  was  the  last  bot 
tle,  and  maybe  it  was  just  as  well. 


CHRISTMAS  GIFTS 


CHKISTMAS    GIFTS 

CHRISTMAS  on  Sucrier  plantation,  and  the 
V-^  gardens  are  on  fire  with  red  flames  of  salvia, 
roses,  geraniums,  verbenas,  rockets  of  Indian  shot, 
brilliant  blazes  of  coreopsis,  marigold,  and  nastur 
tium,  glowing  coals  of  vivid  portulaca. 

Louisiana  acknowledges  a  social  obligation  to 
respond  to  a  Christmas  freeze  ;  but  when  a  guest 
tarries,  what  is  one  to  do  ? 

She  manufactures  her  ice,  it  is  true.  Why  not 
produce  an  artificial  winter  ?  Simply  because  she 
does  not  care  for  it.  If  she  did —  ?  Such  things 
are  easily  arranged. 

Still,  when  he  comes,  a  guest,  she  would  not 
forget  her  manners  and  say  him  nay,  any  sooner 
than  she  would  shrug  her  shoulders  at  a  New 
England  cousin  or  answer  his  questions  in  French. 

She  does  the  well-bred  act  to  the  death,  sum 
mons  her  finest,  fairest,  most  brilliant  and  tender 
of  flower  and  leaf  to  await  his  coming :  so  to 
day  all  her  royal  summer  family  are  out  in  full 
court  dress,  ready  to  prostrate  themselves  at  his 
feet. 

This  may  be  rash,  but  it  is  polite. 

Her  grandfather  was  both  ;  and  so  the  "  Creole 
9 


130  CHRISTMAS    GIFTS 

State,"  in  touch  with  her  antipodal  brother  in 
ancestor-worship,  is  satisfied. 

But  winter,  the  howling  swell,  forgetful  of  pro 
vincial  engagements,  does  not  come.  Still,  the 
edge  of  his  promise  is  in  the  breeze  to-day,  and 
the  flaring  banana  leaves  of  tender  green  look 
cold  and  half  afraid  along  the  garden  wall. 

The  Yule  log  smoulders  lazily  and  comfortably 
in  the  big  fireplace,  but  windows  and  doors  are 
open,  and  rocking-chairs  and  hammocks  swing  on 
the  broad  galleries  of  the  great  house. 

It  is  a  rich  Christmas  of  the  olden  time. 

Breakfast  and  the  interchange  of  presents  are 
over. 

Cautious  approaches  of  wheels  through  the 
outer  gates  during  the  night,  in  the  wee  short 
hours  when  youth  sleeps  most  heavily,  have  re 
sulted  in  mysterious  appearances  :  a  new  piano  in 
the  parlor  ;  a  carriage,  a  veritable  ante-bellum 
chariot,  and  a  pair  of  bays,  in  the  stable  ;  guns, 
silver-mounted  trappings,  saddles,  books,  pictures, 
jewels,  and  dainty  confections,  within  and  piled 
about  the  stockings  that  hung  around  the  broad 
dining-room  chimney. 

For  there  were  sons  and  daughters  on  Sucrier 
plantation. 

An  easy-going,  healthy,  hearty,  and  happy  man, 
of  loose  purse  -  strings  and  lax  business  habits, 
old  Colonel  Slack  had  grown  wealthy  simply  be 
cause  he  lived  on  the  shore  where  the  tide  always 
came  in — the  same  shore  where  since '61  the 


CHRISTMAS   GIFTS  131 

waters  move  ever  to  the  sea,  and  those  who  wait 
ed  where  he  stood  are  stranded. 

His  highest  ambitions  in  life  were  realized. 
His  children,  the  elect  by  inheritance  to  luxurious 
ease,  were  growing  up  about  him,  tall,  straight, 
and  handsome,  and  happily  free  from  disorgan 
izing  ambitions,  loving  the  fleece-lined  home-nest. 

The  marriage  of  an  eldest  daughter,  Louise,  to 
a  wealthy  next-door  planter,  five  miles  away,  had 
seemed  but  to  add  a  bit  of  broidery  to  the  borders 
of  his  garment. 

His  pretty,  dainty  wife,  in  lieu  of  wrinkles,  had 
taken  on  avoirdupois  and  white  hair,  and  instead 
of  shrivelling  like  a  four-o'clock  had  bloomed  into 
a  regal  evening-glory. 

So  distinctly  conscious  of  all  these  blessings  was 
the  old  colonel  that  his  atmosphere  seemed  al 
ways  charged  with  the  electric  quality  which  was 
happiness  ;  but  on  occasions  like  to-day,  when  the 
depths  of  his  tendernesses  were  stirred  within  him 
by  the  ecstasy  of  giving  and  of  receiving  thanks 
and  smiles  and  thanks  again  from  "  my  handsome 
wife,"  "  my  fine  children,"  "  my  loyal  slaves  " — 
ah,  this  was  the  electric  flash  !  It  was  joy  !  It 
was  delight  and  exuberance  of  spirit  !  It  was 
youth  returned  !  It  was  Christmas  ! 

In  his  heart  were  peace  and  good- will  all  the 
year  round,  and  on  Christmas — hallelujahs. 

He  had  often  been  heard  to  say  that  if  he  ever 
professed  religion  it  would  be  on  Christmas ; 
and,  by  the  way,  so  it  was,  but  not  this  Christmas. 


132  CHEISTMAS    GIFTS 

A  tender-souled,  good  old  man  was  he,  yet 
thoughtless,  withal,  as  a  growing  boy. 

Down  in  the  quarters,  this  morning,  the  negroes, 
gaudily  arrayed  in  their  Sunday  best,  were  con 
gregated  in  squads  about  the  benches  in  front  of 
their  cabins,  awaiting  the  ringing  of  the  planta 
tion  bell  which  should  summon  them  to  "  the 
house  "  to  receive  their  Christmas  packages. 

In  the  grove  of  China-trees  around  which  the 
cabins  were  ranged,  a  crowd  of  young  men  and 
maidens  flirted  and  chaffed  one  another  on  the 
probable  gifts  awaiting  them. 

One  picked  snatches  of  tunes  on  a  banjo,  an 
other  drew  a  bow  across  an  old  fiddle,  but  the 
greater  number  were  giddily  spending  themselves 
in  plantation  repartee,  a  clever  answer  always 
provoking  a  loud,  unanimous  laugh,  usually  fol 
lowed  by  a  reckless  duet  by  the  two  "  musi- 
cianers." 

Sometimes,  when  the  jokes  were  too  utterly 
delicious,  the  young  "bucks"  would  ecstatically 
hug  the  China-trees  or  tumble  down  upon  the 
grass  and  bellow  aloud. 

"  What  yer  reck'n  ole  marster  gwine  give  you, 
Unc'  Torm  ?"  said  one,  addressing  an  old  man  who 
had  just  joined  the  group  and  sat  sunning  his 
shiny  bald  head. 

"  'Spec'  he  gwine  give  Unc'  Torm  some  hair-ile, 
ur  a  co'se  comb,"  suggested  a  pert  youth. 

"  Look  like  he  better  give  you  a  wagon-tongue 
ur  a  bell-tongue,  one,  'caz^  yo'  tongue  ain't  long 


CHRISTMAS    GIFTS  133 

'nough,"  replied  Uncle  Tom  quietly,  and  so  the 
joke  was  turned. 

"  I  trus'  he  gwine  give  Bow-laigged  Joe  a  new 
pair  o'  breeches  !" 

"  Ef  he  do,  I  hope  dey'll  be  cut  out  wid  a 
circular  saw  !"  came  a  quick  response,  which 
brought  a  scream  of  laughter. 

"  Wonder  what  Lucindy  an'  Dave  gwine  git  ?" 

Lucinda  and  Dave  were  bride  and  groom  of  a 
month. 

In  a  minute  two  big  fellows  were  screaming  and 
holding  their  sides  over  a  whispered  suggestion, 
when  the  word  "  cradle"  escaped  and  set  girls  and 
all  to  giggling. 

"Pity  somebody  wouldn't  drap  some  o'  you 
smart  boys  on  a  corn-cradle  an'  chop  you  up," 
protested  the  bride,  with  a  toss  of  her  head. 

"  De  whole  passel  ob  'em  wouldn't  make  noth- 
in'  but  rotten-stone,  ef  dee  was  grine  up,"  sug 
gested  Uncle  Tom,  with  an  intolerant  sniffle. 

"  Den  you  mought  use  us  fur  tooth-powder," 
responded  the  wit  again,  and  the  bald-headed  old 
man,  confessing  himself  vanquished,  good-nat 
uredly  bared  his  toothless  gums  to  join  in  the 
laughter  at  his  own  expense. 

A  sudden  clang  of  the  bell  brought  all  to  their 
feet  presently,  and,  strutting,  laughing,  prancing, 
they  proceeded  up  to  the  house,  the  musicians 
tuning  up  afresh  en  route,  for  in  the  regular  order 
of  exercises  arranged  for  the  day  they  were  to 
play  an  important  part. 


134  CHRISTMAS    GIFTS 

The  recipients  were  to  be  ranged  in  the  yard  in 
Jine,  about  fifty  feet  from  the  steps  of  the  back 
veranda  where  the  master  should  stand,  and,  as 
their  names  should  be  called,  to  dance  forward, 
receive  their  gifts,  courtesy,  and  dance  back  to 
their  places. 

At  the  calling  of  the  names  music  would  begin. 

The  pair  who  by  vote  should  be  declared  the 
most  graceful  should  receive  from  the  master's 
hand  a  gift  of  five  dollars  each,  with  the  under 
standing  that  it  should  supply  the  eggnog  for  the 
evening's  festivities,  where  the  winners  should 
preside  as  king  and  queen. 

An  interested  audience  of  the  master's  family, 
seated  on  the  veranda  back  of  him,  was  a  further 
stimulant  to  best  effort. 

The  packages,  all  marked  with  names,  were 
piled  on  two  tables,  those  for  men  on  one  and  the 
women's  on  the  other,  and  the  couples  resulting 
from  a  random  selection  from,  each  caused  no  little 
merriment. 

All  had  agreed  to  the  conditions,  and  when 
Lame  Phoabe  was  called  out  with  Jake  Daniels,  a 
famous  dancer,  they  were  greeted  with  shouts  of 
applause. 

Phoebe,  enthused  by  her  reception,  and  in  no 
wise  embarrassed  by  a  short  leg,  made  a  virtue 
of  necessity,  advancing  and  retreating  in  a  series 
of  graceful  bows,  manipulating  her  sinewy  body 
so  dextrously  that  the  inclination  towards  the  left 
foot  was  more  than  concealed,  and  for  the  first 


CHRISTMAS    GIFTS  135 

time  in  his  life  Jake  Daniels  came  in  second  best, 
as,  amid  deafening  applause,  Lame  Phoebe  bowed 
and  wheeled  herself  back  among  the  people. 

Then  came  Joe  Scott,  an  ebony  swell,  with  Fat 
Sarey,  a  portly  dame  of  something  like  three 
hundred  avoirdupois  —  a  difficult  combination 
again. 

That  Sarey  had  not  danced  for  twenty  years 
was  not  through  reluctance  of  the  flesh  more 
than  of  the  spirit,  for  she  was  "  a  chile  o'  de 
kingdom,"  both  by  her  own  profession  and  uni 
versal  consent. 

Laughing  good-naturedly,  with  shaking  sides 
she  stepped  forward,  bowed  first  to  her  master 
and  then  to  her  partner,  and,  raising  her  right 
hand,  began,  in  a  wavering,  soft  voice,  keeping 
time  to  the  vibrating  melody  by  easy  undulations 
of  her  pliable  body,  to  sing  : 

"  Dey's  a  star  in  de  eas'  on  a  Chris'mus  morn. 

Rise  up,  shepherd,  an*  foller  ! 
Hit'll  lead  ter  de  place  whar  de  Saviour's  born. 

Rise  up,  shepherd,  an'  foller  ! 
Ef  yer  take  good  heed  ter  de  angels'  words, 
You'll  forgit  yo'  flocks  an'  f orgit  yo'  herds, 
An'  rise  up,  shepherd,  an'  foller  1 
Leave  yo'  sheep  an' 
Leave  yo'  lamb  an' 
Leave  yo'  ewe  an' 
Leave  yo'  ram,  an' 
Rise  up,  shepherd,  an'  foller  1" 

Joe  took  his  cue  from  the  first  note,  and,  ac- 


136  CHEISTMAS   GIFTS 

oommodating  his  movements  to  hers,  elaborating 
them  profusely  with  graceful  gestures,  he  fell  in 
with  a  rich,  high  tenor,  making  a  melody  so  tender 
and  true  that  the  audience  were  hushed  in  reveren 
tial  silence. 

The  first  verse  finished,  Sarey  turned  slowly, 
and  by  an  uplifted  finger  invited  all  hands  to  join 
in  the  chorus. 

Rich  and  loud,  in  all  four  parts,  came  the  effec 
tive  refrain : 

"  Foller,  f oiler,  f oiler,  f oiler, 
Rise  up,  shepherd,  rise  an'  f  oiler, 
Foller  de  Star  o'  Bethlehem !" 

Still  taking  the  initiative,  Sarey  now  bent  easily 
and  deeply  forward  in  a  most  effusive  parlor  salu 
tation  as  she  received  her  gift ;  while  Joe,  as  ever 
quick  of  intuition,  also  dispensed  with  the  tra 
ditional  dipping  courtesy,  while  he  surrendered 
himself  to  a  profound  bow  which  involved  the 
entire  length  of  his  willowy  person. 

Turning  now,  without  losing  for  a  moment  the 
rhythmic  movement,  they  proceeded  to  sing  a  sec 
ond  verse  : 

"Oh,  dat  star's  still  shinin'  dis  Chris'mus  day. 

Rise,  O  sinner,  an'  f  oiler  ! 
Wid  an  eye  o'  faith  you  c'n  see  its  ray. 

Rise,  O  sinner,  an'  foller  ! 
Hit'll  light  yo'  way  thoo  de  fiel's  o'  fros', 
While  it  leads  thoo  de  stable  ter  de  shinin'  crosa 

Rise,  O  sinner,  an'  foller  ! 


CHRISTMAS    GIFTS  137 

Leave  yo'  father, 
Leave  yo'  mother, 
Leave  yo'  sister, 
Leave  yo'  brother, 
An'  rise,  O  sinner,  an'  f  oiler  !' 

A  slightly  accelerated  movement  had  now 
brought  the  performers  back  to  their  places, 
when  the  welkin  rang  with  a  full  all-round  chorus: 

"Foller,  f  oiler,  f  oiler,  f  oiler, 
Rise,  O  sinner,  rise  an'  foller, 
Foller  de  Star  o'  Bethlehem  !" 

A  few  fervid  high-noted  "  Amens  !"  pathetically 
suggestive  of  pious  senility,  were  succeeded  now 
by  a  silence  more  eloquent  than  applause. 

Other  dancers  by  youthful  antics  soon  restored 
hilarity,  however,  and  for  quite  an  hour  the  fes 
tivities  kept  up  with  unabated  interest. 

Finally  a  last  parcel  was  held  up — only  one — 
and  when  the  master  called,  "  Judy  Collins  !"  add 
ing,  "  Judy,  you'll  have  to  dance  by  yourself,  my 
girl  1"  the  excitement  was  so  great  that  for  several 
minutes  nothing  could  be  done. 

Judy  Collins,  by  a  strange  coincidence,  was  the 
only  "  old  maid "  on  the  plantation,  and,  as  she 
was  a  dashing,  handsome  woman,  she  had  given 
the  mitten  at  one  time  or  another  to  nearly  every 
man  present. 

That  she  should  have  to  dance  alone  was  too 
much  for  their  self-control. 

The  women,  convulsed  with  laughter,  held  on 
to  one  another,  while  the  men  shrieked  aloud. 


138  CHRISTMAS    GIFTS 

Judy  was  the  only  self-possessed  person  present. 

Before  any  one  realized  her  intention,  she  had 
seized  a  new  broom  from  the  kitchen  porch  near, 
and  stepped  out  into  the  arena  with  it  in  her  hand. 

Judy  was  grace  itself.  Tall,  willowy,  and  lithe, 
stately  as  a  pine,  supple  as  a  mountain-trout,  she 
glided  forward  with  her  broom. 

Holding  it  now  at  arm's-length,  now  balancing 
it  on  end  and  now  on  its  wisps,  tilting  it  at  haz 
ardous  angles,  but  always  catching  it  ere  it  fell, 
poising  it  on  her  finger-tips,  her  chin,  her  fore 
head,  the  back  of  her  neck,  keeping  perfect  time 
the  while  with  the  music,  she  advanced  to  receive 
her  parcel,  which,  with  a  quick  movement,  she 
deftly  attached  to  the  broom-handle,  and,  throw 
ing  it  over  her  shoulder,  danced  back  to  her  place. 

The  performance  entire  had  proven  a  brilliant 
success,  and  Judy's  dance  a  fitting  climax. 

Needless  to  say,  Judy  insisted  on  keeping  the 
broom. 

The  awarding  of  the  prizes  by  acclamation  to 
Joe  Scott  and  Fat  Sarey  was  the  work  of  a  mo 
ment,  prettily  illustrating  the  religious  suscepti 
bility  of  the  voters. 

Then  followed  a  "  few  remarks "  from  the 
speaker  of  the  occasion,  and  a  short  and  playful 
response  from  the  master,  when  the  crowd  dis 
persed,  opening  their  bundles  en  route  as  they  re 
turned  merrily  to  their  cabins. 

The  parcels  had  been  affectionately  prepared. 
Besides  the  dresses,  wraps,  and  shoes  given  to  all, 


CHRISTMAS    GIFTS  139 

there  were  attractive  trinkets,  bottles  of  cologne, 
ribbons,  gilt  ear-rings  or  pins  for  the  young 
women,  cravats,  white  collars,  shirt-studs,  for  the 
beaux,  and  for  the  old  such  luxuries  as  tobacco, 
walking-canes,  spectacles,  and  the  like,  with  small 
coins  for  pocket-money. 

This  year,  in  addition  to  the  extra  and  expected 
"gift,"  each  young  woman  received,  to  her  de 
light,  a  flaring  hoop-skirt ;  and  such  a  lot  of  bal 
loons  as  were  flying  about  the  plantation  that 
morning  it  would  be  hard  to  find  again. 

Happy  and  care-free  as  little  children  were  they, 
and  as  easily  pleased. 

Having  retired  for  the  moment  necessary  for 
their  inflation  and  adornment,  the  younger  ele 
ment,  balloons  and  beaux,  soon  returned  to  their 
popular  holiday  resort  under  the  China-trees. 

Though  the  branches  were  bare,  the  benches 
beneath  them  commanded  a  perennial  fair-weather 
patronage ;  for  where  a  bench  and  a  tree  are, 
there  will  young  men  and  maidens  be  gathered 
together. 

Lame  Mose  was  there,  with  his  new  cushioned 
crutch,  and  Phil  Thomas  the  preacher,  looking 
ultra-clerical  and  important  in  a  polished  beaver; 
while  Lucinda  and  Dave,  triumphant  in  the  cumu 
lative  dignity  of  new  bride-and-groomship,  hoop- 
skirt  and  standing  collar,  actually  strutted  about 
arm  in  arm  in  broad  daylight,  to  the  intense 
amusement  of  the  young  folk,  who  nudged  one 
another  and  giggled  as  they  passed. 


140  CHRISTMAS    GIFTS 

Such  was  the  merry  spirit  of  the  group  when 
Si,  a  young  mulatto  household  servant,  suddenly 
appeared  upon  the  scene. 

"  'Cindy,"  said  he,  "  marster  say  come  up  ter  de 
house — dat  is,  ef  you  an'  Dave  kin  part  company 
fur  'bout  ten  minutes." 

"  I  don'  keer  nothin'  'bout  no  black  ogly-lookin' 
some'h'n-'nother  like  Dave,  nohow  !"  exclaimed 
Lucinda  flirtatiously,  as  she  playfully  grasped  Si's 
arm  and  proceeded  with  him  to  the  house,  leaving 
Dave  laughing  with  the  rest  at  her  antics. 

The  truth  was  that,  confidently  expecting  the 
descent  of  some  further  gift  upon  her  brideship, 
Lucinda  was  delighted  at  the  summons,  and  her 
face  beamed  with  expectancy  as  she  presented 
herself  before  her  master. 

"Lucindy,"  said  he,  as  she  entered,  "I  want 
you  to  mount  Lady  Gay  and  ride  down  to  Beech- 
wood  this  morning,  to  take  some  Christmas  things 
to  Louise  and  her  chicks." 

Lucinda's  smile  broadened  in  a  delighted  grin. 

A  visit  to  Beechwood  to-day  would  be  sure  to 
elicit  a  present  from  her  young  mistress,  "  Miss 
Louise,"  besides  affording  an  opportunity  to  com 
pare  presents  and  indulge  in  a  little  harmless 
gossip  with  the  Beechwood  negroes. 

Lady  Gay  stood,  ready  saddled,  waiting  at  the 
door.  After  a  little  delay  in  adjusting  the  asser 
tive  springs  of  her  hoop-skirt  to  the  pommel  of  the 
saddle,  Lucinda  started  off  in  a  gallop. 

When  she  entered  the  broad  hall  at  Beechwood, 


CHRISTMAS    GIFTS  141 

the  family,  children  and  all,  recognizing  her  as 
an  ambassador  of  Santa  Claus,  gathered  eagerly 
about  her,  and  as  boxes  and  parcels  were  opened 
in  her  presence  her  eyes  fairly  shone  with  pleas 
ure.  Nor  was  she  disappointed  in  her  hope  of  a 
gift  herself. 

"  I  allus  did  love  you  de  mos'  o'  all  o'  ole  Miss's 
chillen,  Miss  Lou,"  she  exclaimed  presently,  open 
ing  and  closing  with  infantile  delight  a  gay  feath 
er-edged  fan  which  Louise  gave  her. 

"  I  does  nachelly  love  red.  Red  seem  like  hit's 
got  mo'  color  in  it  'n  any  color." 

"  Dis  heah's  a  reg'lar  courtin'-fan,"  she  added  to 
herself,  as  she  followed  the  children  out  into  the 
nursery  to  inspect  their  new  toys,  fanning,  posing, 
and  flirting  as  she  went.  "  Umph  !  ef  I'd  'a'  des 
had  dis  fan  las'  summer  I'd  V  had  Dave  all  but 


crazy." 


After  enjoying  it  for  an  hour  or  more,  she  finally 
wrapped  it  carefully  in  her  handkerchief  and  put 
it  for  safe  keeping  into  her  pocket.  In  doing  so, 
her  hand  came  in  contact  with  a  letter  which  she 
had  forgotten  to  deliver. 

"  Law,  Miss  Lou  !"  she  exclaimed,  hurrying 
back,  "  I  mos'  done  clair  forgittin'  ter  gi'  you  yo' 
letter  wha'  ole  marster  toP  me  ter  han'  you  de 
fus'  thing." 

"  I  wondered  that  father  and  mother  had  sent 
no  message,"  replied  Louise,  opening  the  note. 
Her  face  softened  into  a  smile,  however,  as  she 
proceeded  to  read  it. 


142  CHRISTMAS    GIFTS 

"  Why,  you  wretch,  Lucindy  !"  she  exclaimed, 
laughing,  "you've  kept  me  out  of  my  two  best 
Christmas  gifts  for  an  hour.  I  always  wanted  to 
own  Lady  Gay,  and  father  writes  that  you  are  a 
fine,  capable  girl." 

Lucinda  cast  a  quick,  frightened  look  at  Louise 
and  caught  her  breath. 

"And  I  am  so  glad  to  know  that  you  are 
pleased.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  you  were 
a  Christmas  gift  when  you  came  ?" 

There  was  no  longer  any  doubt.  Lucinda  could 
not  have  answered  to  save  her  life.  The  happy- 
hearted  child  of  a  moment  ago  was  transformed 
into  a  desperate,  grief -stricken  woman. 

"  Why,  Lucindy  !"  Louise  was  really  grieved  to 
discern  the  tragic  look  in  the  girl's  face.  "I  am 
disappointed.  I  thought  you  loved  me.  I  thought 
you  would  be  delighted  to  belong  to  me — to  be 
my  maid — and  not  to  work  in  the  field  any  more 
— and  to  have  a  nice  cabin  in  my  yard — and  a 
sewing-machine — and  to  learn  to  embroider — and 
to  dress  my  hair — and  to — " 

The  growing  darkness  in  Lucinda's  face  warned 
Louise  that  this  conciliatory  policy  was  futile,  and 
yet,  feeling  only  kindly  towards  her,  she  contin 
ued, 

"  Tell  me,  Lucindy,  why  you  are  distressed. 
Don't  you  really  wish  to  belong  to  me  ?  Why 
did  you  say  that  you  loved  me  the  best  ?" 

Words  were  useless.  Louise  was  almost  fright 
ened  as  she  looked  again  into  the  girl's  face.  Her 


CHRISTMAS   GIFTS  143 

eyes  shone  like  a  caged  lion's,  and  her  bosom 
rose  and  fell  tumultuously. 

After  many  fruitless  efforts  to  elicit  a  response, 
Louise  called  her  husband,  and  together  they  tried 
by  kind  assurances  to  pacify  her  ;  but  it  was  vain. 
She  stood  before  them  a  mute  impersonation  of 
despair  and  rage. 

"You'd  better  go  out  into  the  kitchen  for  a 
while,  Lucindy,"  said  Louise  finally,  "and  when  I 
send  for  you  I  shall  expect  you  to  have  composed 
yourself."  Looking  neither  to  right  nor  left, 
Lucinda  strode  out  of  the  hall,  across  the  gallery, 
down'  the  steps,  through  the  yard  to  the  kitchen, 
gazed  at  by  the  assembled  crowd  of  children  both 
black  and  white. 

"  'Cindy  ain't  but  des  on'y  a  little  while  ago 
married,"  said  Tildy,  a  black  girl  who  stood  in 
the  group  as  she  passed  out. 

"Married,  is  she?"  exclaimed  Louise,  eagerly 
grasping  at  a  solution  of  the  difficulty.  "That 
explains.  But  why  didn't  she  tell  me  ?  There 
must  be  some  explanation.  This  is  so  unlike 
father.  We  are  to  dine  at  Sucrier  this  afternoon. 
Go,  Tildy,  and  tell  Lucindy  that  we  will  see  what 
can  be  done." 

"Fo'  laws-o'-mussy  sakes,  Miss  Lou,  please, 
ma'am,  don't  sen'  me  ter  'Cindy  now.  'Cindy  look 
like  she  gwine  hurt  somebody." 

If  she  could  have  seen  Lucinda  at  this  mo 
ment,  she  might  indeed  have  feared  to  approach 
her.  When  she  had  entered  the  kitchen  a  little 


144  CHRISTMAS    GIFTS 

negro  who  had  followed  at   her  heels  had  an 
nounced  to  the  cook  and  her  retinue, 

"  'Cindy  mad  caze  ole  marster  done  sont  'er  fur 
a  Chris'mus-gif  ter  Miss  Lou."  Whereupon  there 
were  varied  exclamations  : 

"  TJrnph  !" 

"  You  is  a  sorry-lookin'  Chris'mus  gif ',  sho  !" 

"I  don't  blame  'er  !" 

"What  you  f retain'  'bout,  chile?  You  in 
heab'n  here  !" 

"De  gal's  married,"  whispered  some  one  in 
stage  fashion,  finally. 

"  Married  !"  shrieked  old  Silvy  Ann  from  her 
corner  where  she  sat  peeling  potatoes.  "  Married  ! 
Eh,  Lord  !  Time  you  ole  as  I  is,  you  won't  fret 
'bout  no  sech.  Turn  'im  out  ter  grass,  honey,  an' 
start  out  fur  a  grass- widder.  I  got  five  I  done 
turned  out  in  de  pasture  now,  an'  ef  dee  sell  me 
out  ag'in,  Ole  Abe'll  be  a-grazin'  wid  de  res'  ! 

"  Life  is  too  short  ter  fret,  honey  !  But  ef  yer 
bouri*  ter  fret,  fret  'bout  some'Krt!  Don't  fret 
'bout  one  o'  deze  heah  long-laigged,  good-fur- 
nothin'  sca'crows  name'  Mister  Man  !  Who  you 
married  ter,  gal  ?" 

"  She  married  ter  cross-eyed  Dave,"  some  one 
answered. 

"  Cross-eyed  !  De  Lord  !  Let  'im  go  fur  what 
he'll  fetch,  honey  !  De  woods  roun'  heah  is  full 
o'  straight-eyed  ones,  let  'lone  game-eyes  !"  And 
the  vulgar  old  creature  encored  her  own  wit  with 
an  outburst  of  cracked  laughter. 


CHRISTMAS    GIFTS  145 

"Ain't  you  'shame'  o'  yo'se'f,  Aunt  Silvy  Ann ! 
'Cindy  ain't  like  you;  she  married — wid  a 
preacher" 

"  Yas,  an'  unmarried  'dout  no  preacher  !  What's 
de  good  o'  lockin'  de  do'  on  de  inside  wid  a  key, 
ef  you  c'n  open  it  f 'om  de  outside  'dout  no  key  ? 
I  done  kep'  clair  o'  locks  an'  keys  all  my  life,  an' 
nobody's  feelin's  was  hurt." 

While  old  Silvy  Ann  was  running  on  in  this 
fashion,  Texas,  the  cook,  had  begun  to  address 
Lucinda  : 

"Don't  grieve  yo'  heart,  baby.  My  ole  man 
stay  mo'  fur  'n  ole  marster's  f'orn  heah  —  'way 
down  ter  de  cross-roads  t'other  side  de  bayou. 
How  fur  do  daddy  stay,  chillen?"  she  added, 
as  she  broke  red  pepper  into  her  turkey-stuffing. 

"Leb'n  mile,"  answered  four  voices  from  as 
many  little  black  pickaninnies  who  tumbled  over 
one  another  on  the  floor. 

"  You  heah  dat !  LeVn  mile,  an'  ev'y  blessed 
night  he  come  home  ter  Texas  !  Yas,  ma'am,  an' 
'is  lone  star  keep  a  lookout  fur  'im  too — a  candle 
in  de  winder  an'  a  tin  pan  o'  'membrance  on  de 
hyearth." 

Seeing  that  her  words  produced  no  effect,  Texas 
changed  her  tactics. 

Approaching  Lucinda,  she  regarded  her  with 
admiration  :  "  Dat's  a  quality  collar  you  got  on, 
'Cindy.  An',  law  bless  my  soul,  ef  de  gal  'ain't 
got  on  hoops  !  You  gwine  lead  de  style  on  dis 
planta — " 
10 


146  CHRISTMAS   GIFTS 

Texas  never  finished  her  sentence. 
Trembling  with  fury,  Lucinda  snatched  the 
collar  from  her  neck  and  tore  it  into  bits  ;  then, 
making  a  dive  at  her  skirts,  she  ripped  them  into 
shreds  in  her  frantic  efforts  to  destroy  the  hoop- 
skirt. 

Dragging  the  gilt  pendants  from  her  ears,  tear 
ing  the  flesh  as  she  did  so,  she  threw  them  upon 
the  floor,  and,  stamping  upon  them,  ground  them 
to  atoms. 

Attracted  next  by  her  new  brogans,  she  kicked 
them  from  her  feet  and  hurled  them,  one  after 
another,  into  the  open  fire.  No  vestige  of  a  gift 
from  the  hand  that  had  betrayed  her  would  she 
spare. 

While  all  this  was  occurring  in  the  kitchen,  a 
reverse  side  of  the  tragedy  was  enacting  in  the 
house. 

A  few  moments  after  Lucinda's  departure,  while 
Louise  and  her  husband  were  yet  discussing  the 
situation,  another  messenger  came  from  Sucrier, 
this  time  a  man,  and  again  a  gift,  the  "  note" 
which  he  promptly  delivered  proving  to  be  a  deed 
of  conveyance  of  "  two  adult  negroes,  by  name 
Lucinda  and  David."  Then  followed  descriptions 
of  each,  which  it  was  unnecessary  to  read. 
The  bearer  seemed  in  fine  spirits. 
"  Ole  marster  des  sont  me  wid  de  note,  missy," 
said  he,  courtesying  respectfully,  "an'  ef  yer  please, 
ma'am,  I'll  go  right  back  ef  dey  ain't  no  answer. 
We  havin'  a  big  time  up  our  way  ter-day." 


CHRISTMAS    GIFTS  147 

"Why,  don't  you  know  what  this  is,  Dave?" 

"  Yas,  'm,  co'se  I  knows.  Hit's — hit's  a  letter. 
Law,  Miss  Lou,  yer  reck'n  I  don'  know  a  letter 
when  I  see  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  this  letter  says  that  you  are  not  to 
go  back.  Father  has  sent  you  as  a  Christmas  gift 
to  us." 

"  Wh — wh — h — how  you  say  dat,  missy  ?" 

"  Please  don't  look  so  frightened,  Dave.  From 
the  way  you  all  are  acting  to-day,  I  begin  to  be 
afraid  of  myself.  Don't  you  want  to  belong  to 
me?" 

"  Y — y — yas,  'm,  but  yer  see,  missy,  I — I — I's 
married." 

The  hat  in  his  hand  was  trembling  as  he  spoke. 

"  And  where  is  your  wife  ?"  Could  it  be  possi 
ble  that  he  did  not  know  ? 

"She —  sh —  she — "  The  boy  was  actually 
crying.  "  She  stay  wid  me.  B — b — but  marster 
des  sont  'er  on  a  arrant  dis  mornin'.  Gord  knows 
whar  he  sont  'er.  I  'lowed  maybe  he  sont  'er 
heah,  tell  'e  sont  me." 

The  situation,  which  was  plain  now,  had  grown 
so  interesting  that  Louise  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  to  bring  the  unconscious  actors  in 
the  little  drama  together,  that  she  might  witness 
the  happy  catastrophe. 

She  whispered  to  Tildy  to  call  Lucinda. 

That  Lucinda  should  have  been  summoned  just 
at  the  crisis  of  her  passion  was  most  inoppor 
tune. 


148  CHRISTMAS    GIFTS 

Tildy  stood  at  a  distance  as  she  timidly  deliv 
ered  the  message.  Indeed,  all  the  occupants  of 
the  kitchen  had  moved  off  apace  and  stood  aghast 
and  silent. 

As  soon  as  Lucinda  heard  the  command,  how 
ever,  without  even  looking  down  at  herself,  with 
head  still  high  in  air  and  her  fury  unabated, 
she  followed  Tildy  into  the  presence  of  her  mis 
tress. 

Louise  was  frightened  when  she  looked  upon 
her  ;  indeed  it  was  some  moments  before  she  could 
command  herself  enough  to  speak. 

The  girl's  appearance  was  indeed  tragic. 

In  tearing  the  ribbon  from  her  hair  she  had 
loosened  the  ends  of  the  short  braids,  which  stood 
in  all  directions.  Her  ears  were  dripping  with 
blood,  and  her  torn  sleeve  revealed  her  black  arm, 
scratched  with  her  nails,  also  bleeding. 

Below  her  tattered  skirt  trailed  long,  detached 
springs,  the  dilapidated  remains  of  the  glorious 
structure  of  the  morning. 

Her  tearless  eyes  gave  no  sign  of  weakening, 
and  the  veins  about  her  neck  and  temples,  pulsat 
ing  with  passion,  were  swollen  and  knotted  like 
ropes. 

She  seemed  to  have  grown  taller,  and  the  black 
circles  beneath  her  eyes  and  about  her  swelling 
lips  imparted  by  contrast  an  ashen  hue  grimly 
akin  to  pallor  to  the  rest  of  her  face. 

As  her  mistress  contemplated  her,  she  was 
moved  to  pity. 


CHRISTMAS    GIFTS  149 

"Lucindy"  —  she  spoke  with  marked  gentle 
ness — "  I  showed  you  all  our  Christmas  gifts  this 
morning ;  but  after  you  went  out  we  received 
another,  and  I've  sent  for  you  to  show  you  this 
too." 

She  hesitated,  but  not  even  by  a  quivering 
muscle  did  Lucinda  give  a  sign  of  hearing. 

"Look  over  there  towards  the  library  door,  Lu 
cindy,  and  see  the  nice  carriage-driver  father  sent 
me." 

Ah  !  now  she  looked. 

For  a  moment  only  young  husband  and  wife 
regarded  each  other,  and  then,  oblivious  to  all 
eyes,  the  two  Christmas  gifts  rushed  into  each 
other's  arms. 

The  fountains  of  her  wrath  were  broken  up 
now,  and  Lucinda's  tears  came  like  rain.  Crying 
and  sobbing  aloud,  she  threw  her  long  arms 
around  little  Dave,  and,  dragging  him  out  into 
the  floor,  began  to  dance. 

Dave,  more  sensitive  than  she,  abashed  after 
the  first  surprise,  became  conscious  and  ashamed. 

"  Stop,  'Cindy  !  I  'clare,  gal,  stop  !  Stop,  I 
say !"  he  cried,  trying  in  vain  to  wrest  himself 
from  her  grasp. 

"  You  'Cindy  !  You  makes  me  'shame' !  Law, 
gal !  Miss  Lou,  come  here  to  'Cindy !" 

But  the  half -savage  creature,  mad  with  joy, 
gave  no  heed  to  his  resistance  as  she  whirled  him 
round  and  round  up  and  down  the  hall. 

"  Hallelujah  !     Glory  !     Amen  !     Glory  be  ter 


150  CHRISTMAS    GIFTS 

Gord,  fur  givin'  me  back  dis  heah  little  black, 
cross-eyed,  bandy-legged  nigger  !  Glory,  I  say  !" 

The  scene  was  not  without  pathos.  And  yet — 
how  small  a  thing  will  sometimes  turn  the  tide  of 
emotion  !  By  how  trifling  a  by-play  does  a  trag 
edy  become  comedy  ! 

In  her  first  whirl,  the  trailing  steels  of  Lucin- 
da's  broken  hoop-skirt  flew  over  the  head  of  the 
cat,  who  sat  in  the  door,  entrapping  her  securely. 

Round  and  round  went  poor  puss,  terror-strick 
en  and  wildly  glaring,  utterly  unable  to  extricate 
herself,  until  finally  a  reversed  movement  freeing 
her,  she  sprang  with  a  desperate  plunge  and  an 
ear-splitting  "  Miaou  /"  by  a  single  bound  out  of 
the  back  door. 

This  served  to  bring  Lucinda  to  a  consciousness 
of  her  surroundings. 

Screaming  with  laughter,  she  threw  herself 
down  and  rolled  on  the  floor. 

In  rising,  her  eyes  fell  for  the  first  time,  with  a 
sense  of  perception,  upon  herself. 

Suddenly  conscience-stricken,  she  threw  herself 
again  before  her  mistress. 

"Fur  Gord  sake,  whup  me,  Miss  Lou!"  she  be 
gan;  "  whup  me,  ur  put  me  in  de  stocks,  one!  I  ain't 
no  mo'  fitt'n  fur  a  Chris'mus  gif '  'n  one  o'  deze 
heah  tiger-cats  in  de  show-tent.  Des  look  heah  how 
I  done  ripped  up  all  my  purties,  an'  bus'  my  ears 
open,  an'  broke  up  all  my  hoop-granjer,  all  on 
'count  o'  dat  little  black,  cross-eyed  nigger  !  I 
tell  yer  de  trufe,  missy,  I  ain't  no  bad-hearted 


CHRISTMAS    GIFTS  151 

nigger  !  You  des  try  me  !  I'll  hoe  fur  yer,  I'll 
plough  fur  yer,  I'll  split  rails  fur  yer,  I'll  be  yo' 
hair-dresser,  I'll  run  de  sew'-machine  fur  yer,  I'll 
walk  on  my  head  fur  yer,  ef  yer  des  leave  me  dat 
one  little  black  scrooched-up  sorue'h'n'-'nother 
stan'in'  over  yonner  'g'inst  de  do',  grinnin'  like  a 
chessy-cat.  He  ain't  much,  but,  sech  as  'e  is  an' 
what  dey  is  of  'im,  fur  Gord  sake,  spare  'im  ter 
me  !  Somehow,  de  place  whar  he  done  settled  in 
my  heart  is  des  nachelly  my  wiV-cat  spot" 

Sitting  in  her  rags  at  her  mistress's  feet,  in  this 
fashion  she  approached  the  formal  apology  which 
she  felt  that  her  conduct  demanded. 

Somehow  the  conventional  formula,  "I  ax  yo' 
pardon,"  seemed  inadequate  to  the  present  re 
quirement. 

She  hardly  knew  how  to  proceed. 

After  hesitating  a  moment  in  some  embarrass 
ment,  she  began  again,  in  a  lower  tone  : 

"  Miss  Lou,  dis  heah's  Chris'mus,  ain't  it  ?" 

"Yes  ;  you  know  it  is." 

"An'  hit's  de  day  de  Lord  cas'  orf  all  'is  glory 
an'  come  down  ter  de  yearth,  des  a  po'  little  baby 
a-layin'  in  a  stable  'longside  o'  de  cows  an'  calves, 
ain't  it  ?" 

"Yes." 

"An'  hit's  de  day  de  angels  come  a-singin' 
*  peace  an'  good- will,'  ain't  it  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Miss  Lou—" 

"Well?" 


152  CHRISTMAS    GIFTS 

"On  de  'count  o'  all  dat,  honey,  won't  yer 
please,  ma'am,  pass  over  my  wil'-cat  doin's  dis 
time,  mistus  ?" 

She  waited  a  moment,  and,  not  understanding 
how  a  rising  lump  in  her  throat  kept  her  mistress 
silent,  continued  to  plead  : 

"  Fur  Gord  sake,  mistus,  I  done  said  all  de  scrip- 
chur'  I  knows.  What  mo'  kin  I  say  ?" 

"  What — what — what — what — what's  all  this?" 

It  was  old  Colonel  Slack,  standing  in  the  front 
hall  door. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the  three  grandchil 
dren  ran  to  meet  him,  Louise  following. 

"  You  dear  old  father  !"  she  exclaimed,  kissing 
him.  "  You've  grown  impatient  and  come  after 
us!" 

"  Certainly  I  have.  What  sort  of  spending  the 
day  do  you  call  this  ?  It's  two  o'clock  now.  But 
what's  all  this  ?"  he  repeated,  approaching  Lu- 
cinda,  who  had  risen  to  her  feet. 

Dave  had  gradually  backed  nearly  out  of  the 
door. 

"  Why,  Lucindy,  my  girl !  you  look  as 'if  you'd 
had  a  tiff  with  a  panther." 

"  Tell  de  truf e,  marster,  I  done  been  down  an' 
had  a  han'-ter-han'  wrastle  wid  Satan  ter-day,  an* 
he  all  but  whupped  me  out." 

"  How  did  you  happen  to  send  these  poor  chil 
dren  to  us  separately,  father  ?"  said  Louise.  "  They 
have  been  almost  broken-hearted,  each  thinking 
the  other  was  to  stay  at  Sucrier." 


CHRISTMAS    GIFTS  153 

"  Well,  well,  well !  I  am  the  clumsiest  old 
blunderer  !  It's  from  Scylla  to  Charybdis  every 
time.  I  didn't  want  my  people  to  suspect  they 
were  going,  just  because  it's  Christmas,  you  know, 
and  saying  good-bye  will  cast  a  sort  of  shadow 
over  things.  Dave  and  Lucindy  are  immensely 
popular  among  the  darkies.  I  knew  they'd  be 
glad  to  come ;  it's  promotion,  you  see.  Never 
thought  of  a  misunderstanding.  And  so  you  poor 
children  thought  I  wanted  to  divorce  you,  did  you? 
And  you,  Lucindy,  flew  into  a  tantrum  and  tore 
the  clothes  off  your  back?  I  don't  blame  you. 
I'd  tear  mine  off  too.  Rig  her  up  again  some 
how,  daughter,  and  let  her  go  up  to  the  dance  to 
night." 

Opening  his  pocket-book,  he  took  out  two  crisp 
five-dollar  bills. 

Handing  one  of  them  to  Lucinda,  he  said  : 

"  Here,  girl,  take  this,  and — don't  you  tell  'em 
I  said  so,  but  I  thought  you  beat  the  whole  crowd 
dancing  this  morning,  anyhow.  And  Dave,  you 
little  cross-eyed  rascal  you,  step  up  here  and  get 
your  money.  Here's  five  dollars  to  pay  for  spoil 
ing  your  Christmas.  Now,  off  with  you  !" 

As  they  passed  out,  Lucinda  seized  Dave's  arm, 
and  when  last  seen  as  they  crossed  the  yard  she 
was  dragging  the  little  fellow  from  side  to  side, 
dancing  in  her  rags  and  flirting  high  in  air  the 
red  fan,  which  by  some  chance  had  escaped  de 
struction  in  her  pocket. 

Magnificent  in  a  discarded  ball-dress  of  her  new 


154  CHRISTMAS    GIFTS 

mistress,  Lucinda  was  the  centre  of  attraction  at 
the  Sucrier  festival  that  evening,  and  when  ques 
tioned  in  regard  to  her  toilet  of  the  morning,  she 
answered,  with  a  playful  toss  of  the  head : 

"  What  y'all  talkin'  'bout,  niggers  ?  I  wushes 
you  ter  on'erstan'  dat  I's  a  house-gal  now  !  Yer 
reck'n  I  gwine  wear  common  ornamints,  same  as 
youfiel'-han's?" 


"BUNK" 


«  BLINK" 


IT  was  nearly  midnight  of  Christmas  Eve  on 
Oakland  Plantation.  In  the  library  of  the 
great  house  a  dim  lamp  burned,  and  here,  in  a  big 
arm-chair  before  a  waning  fire,  Evelyn  Bruce,  a 
fair  young  girl,  sat  earnestly  talking  to  a  withered 
old  black  woman,  who  sat  on  the  rug  at  her 
feet. 

"An'  yer  say  de  plantation!  done  sol',  baby,  an' 
we  boun'  ter  move  ?" 

"Yes,  mammy,  the  old  place  must  go." 

"An'  is  de  'Onerble  Mr.  Citified  buyed  it, 
baby  ?  I  know  he  an'  ole  marster  sot  up  all  en- 
durin'  las'  night  a-talkin'  and  a-figgurin'." 

"Yes.  Mr.  Jacobs  has  closed  the  mortgage, 
and  owns  the  place  now." 

"  Who  toP  yer,  honey  ?    Is  ole  marster  sesso  ?" 

"  No,  mammy.  Father  seemed  so  depressed 
that  I  followed  Mr.  Jacobs  out  this  morning,  and 
asked  him  all  about  it,  and  he  told  me." 

"  He  'ain't  talked  no  way  sassy  ter  yer  'bout  it, 
is  he,  baby  ?  'Ain't  put  on  no  'bove-ish  ways  ? 
Deze  heah  permissiom-merchams,  dee  puts  on  a 
heap  o'  biggoty  an'  super/?wousness  sometimes 


158  "BLINK" 

when  dee  steps  inter  de  royal  kingdoms,  an'  'ray 
deyselves  in  robes  made  fur  bigger  folks." 

"  Mr.  Jacobs  spoke  very  kindly,  mammy.  I 
think  he  is  truly  sorry." 

"  An'  when  is  we  gwine,  baby  ?" 

"  The  sooner  the  better.  I  wish  the  going  were 
over." 

"An'  whar'bouts  is  we  gwine,  honey?" 

"  We  will  go  to  the  city,  mammy — to  New  Or 
leans.  Something  tells  me  that  father  will  never 
be  able  to  attend  to  business  again,  and  I  am 
going  to  work — to  make  money." 

Mammy  fell  backward.  "  W-w-w-work!  Y-y- 
you  w-w-work  !  Wh-wh-why,  baby,  what  sort  o' 
funny,  cuyus  way  is  you  a-talkin',  anyhow  ?" 

11  Many  refined  women  are  earning  their  living 
in  the  city,  mammy." 

"  Is  you  a-talkin'  sense,  baby,  ur  is  yer  des 
a-bluffin'  ?  Is  yer  axed  yo'  pa  yit  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  father  is  well,  mammy.  He 
says  that  whatever  I  suggest  we  will  do,  and  I  am 
sure  it  is  best.  We  will  take  a  cheap  little  house, 
father  and  I—" 

"  Y-y-you  an'  yo'  pa  !  An'  wh-wh-what  'bout 
me,  baby  ?"  Mammy  would  stammer  when  she 
was  excited. 

"And  you,  mammy,  of  course." 

"  Umh  !  umh  !  umh  !  An'  so  we  gwine  ter 
trabble  !  An'  de'  Onerble  Mr.  Citified  done  closed 
de  morgans  on  us  !  Ef-ef  I'd  o'  knowed  it  dis 
mornin'  when  he  was  a-quizzifyin'  me  so  serga- 


"  BLINK  "  159 

cious,  I  b'lieve  I'd  o'  upped  an*  sassed  'ira,  I  des 
couldn't  o'  belt  in.  I  'lowed  he  was  teckin' 
a  mighty  frien'ly  intruss,  axin'  me  do  we-all's 
puckon -trees  bear  big  puckons,  an' — an*  ef  de 
well  keep  cool  all  summer,  an' — an'  he  ax  me — 
he  ax  me — " 

"  What  else  did  he  ask  you,  mammy  ?" 

"  Scuze  me  namin'  it  ter  yer,  baby,  but  he  ax 
me  who  was  buried  in  we's  graves — he  did  fur  a 
fac'.  Yer  reck'n  dee  gwine  claim  de  graves  in  de 
morgans,  baby  ?" 

Mammy  had  crouched  again  at  Evelyn's  feet, 
arid  her  eager  brown  face  was  now  almost  against 
her  knee. 

"  All  the  land  is  mortgaged,  mammy." 

"Don't  yer  reck'n  he  mought  des  nachelly 
scuze  de  graves  out'n  de  morgans,  baby,  ef  yer 
ax  'im  mannerly  ?" 

"  I'm  afraid  not,  mammy,  but  after  a  while  we 
may  have  them  moved." 

The  old  bronze  clock  on  the  mantel  struck 
twelve. 

"  Des  listen.  De  ole  clock  a-strikin'  Chris'mus 
gif  now.  Come  'long,  go  ter  baid,  honey.  You 
needs  a  res',  but  I  ain'  gwine  sleep  none,  'caze 
all  dis  heah  news  what  you  been  a-tellin'  me,  hits 
gwine  ter  run  roun'  in  my  haid  all  night,  same  as 
a  buzz-saw." 

And  so  they  passed  out,  mammy  to  her  pallet 
in  Evelyn's  room,  while  Evelyn  stepped  to  her 
father's  chamber. 


160  "  BLINK  " 

Entering  on  tiptoe,  she  stood  and  looked  upon 
his  face.  He  slept  as  peacefully  as  a  babe.  The 
anxious  look  of  care  which  he  had  worn  for  years 
had  passed  away,  and  the  flickering  fire  revealed 
the  ghost  of  a  smile  upon  his  placid  face.  In  this 
it  was  that  Evelyn  read  the  truth.  The  crisis  of 
effort  for  him  was  past.  He  might  follow,  but  he 
would  lead  no  more. 

Since  the  beginning  of  the  war  Colonel  Bruce's 
history  had  been  the  oft-told  tale  of  loss  and  dis 
aster,  and  at  the  opening  of  each  year  since,  there 
had  been  a  flaring  up  of  hope  and  expenditure, 
then  a  long  summer  of  wavering  promise,  fol 
lowed  by  an  inevitable  winter  of  disappoint 
ment. 

The  old  colonel  was,  both  by  inheritance  and 
the  habit  of  many  successful  years,  a  man  of 
great  affairs,  and  when  the  crash  came  he  was  too 
old  to  change.  When  he  bought,  he  bought 
heavily.  He  planted  for  large  results.  There 
was  nothing  petty  about  him,  not  even  his  debts. 
And  now  the  end  had  come. 

As  Evelyn  stood  gazing  upon  his  handsome, 
placid  face  her  eyes  were  blinded  with  tears. 
Falling  upon  her  knees  at  his  side,  she  engaged 
for  a  moment  in  silent  prayer,  consecrating  her 
self  in  love  to  the  life  which  lay  before  her,  and 
as  she  rose  she  kissed  his  forehead  gently,  and 
passed  to  her  own  room. 

Mammy,  in  spite  of  her  own  prediction  of 
sleeplessness,  was  already  snoring  before  the  fire. 


"  BLINK  "  161 

Evelyn  could  not  sleep  yet.  She  felt  so  keenly 
that  her  own  decision  must  be  the  pivot  upon 
which  their  future  lives  must  turn,  that  all  her 
faculties  of  heart  and  mind  were  alert.  As  she 
sank  into  a  chair,  her  eyes  fell  on  the  portraits 
upon  the  walls.  Here  were  the  uniformed  soldier 
brothers,  young  and  handsome,  now  only  a  misty 
memory  of  her  childhood — there,  in  a  frame  of 
silver  daisies,  a  baby  sister,  who  had  died  before 
Evelyn  was  born.  Only  a  spirit  sister  this,  and 
yet  to-night  her  heart  went  out  with  a  strong 
yearning  to  this  baby  face  in  a  cloud.  If  this 
little  sister,  but  a  year  her  senior,  had  lived,  how 
lovingly  the  two  might  plan  and  work  together 
now  !  And  here,  above  the  mantel,  is  the  face 
of  her  mother.  The  gentle  eyes  of  the  picture 
seem  to  shed  a  benediction  upon  her  as  she  looks 
into  them,  and  for  a  moment  the  other  world 
and  this  seem  almost  to  touch,  so  real  does 
Heaven  become  when  it  takes  our  mothers. 

At  last  her  eyes  fall  upon  mammy,  old,  faith 
ful  mammy,  asleep  at  her  feet,  her  very  presence 
here  an  act  of  devotion,  for  since  Evelyn's 
mother's  death  mammy  had  forsaken  her  own 
soft  bed,  and  come  here,  protesting  that  she  was 
"  gitt'n'  clair  sp'iled,  an'  no  'count  anyhow,  sleepin' 
in  a  funniture  bed." 

On  the  table  at  Evelyn's  side  lay  several  piles 

of  manuscript,  and  as   these  attracted  her,  she 

turned  her  chair,  and  fell  to  work  sorting  them 

into  packages,  which    she   laid    carefully  away. 

11 


162  "  BLINK 


These  papers,  representing  much  of  labor  and 
patience,  were  the  visible  foundation  upon  which 
she  hoped  ultimately  to  build  an  independence. 

Evelyn  had  always  loved  to  scribble,  but  only 
within  the  last  few  years  had  the  idea  of  writing 
for  money  come  to  her  as  a  possible  escape  from 
threatened  poverty.  Gleaning  those  which  seemed 
best  of  her  early  writings,  she  had  revised,  pol 
ished,  and  corrected  them  so  far  as  she  could,  and, 
if  the  whole  truth  must  be  told,  she  had  even 
sent  several  manuscripts  to  editors  of  magazines, 
but  somehow,  like  birds  too  young  to  leave  the 
nest,  they  all  found  their  way  back  to  her.  With 
each  failure,  however,  she  had  become  more  de 
termined  to  succeed,  but  in  the  mean  time — now 
— she  must  earn  a  living.  This  was  impracticable 
here.  In  the  city  all  things  were  possible,  and 
to  the  city  she  would  go.  She  would  at  first  ac 
cept  one  of  the  tempting  situations  offered  in  the 
daily  papers,  improving  her  leisure  by  attending 
lectures,  studying,  observing,  cultivating  herself 
in  every  possible  way,  and  after  a  time  she  would 
try  her  hand  again  at  writing. 

It  was  nearly  day  when  she  finally  went  to  bed, 
but  she  was  up  early  next  morning.  There  was 
much  to  be  considered.  Many  things  were  to  be 
done. 

At  first  she  consulted  her  father  about  every 
thing,  but  his  invariable  answer,  "Just  as  you 
say,  daughter,"  transferred  all  responsibility  to 
her. 


"  BLINK  "  163 

A  letter  to  her  mother's  old  New  Orleans  friend, 
Madame  Le  Due,  briefly  set  forth  the  circum 
stances,  and  asked  Madame's  aid  in  securing  a 
small  house.  Other  letters  sent  in  other  directions 
arranged  various  matters,  and  Evelyn  soon  found 
herself  in  the  vortex  of  a  move.  She  had  a  wise, 
clear  head  and  a  steady,  resolute  hand,  and  in  old 
mammy  a  most  efficient  deputy.  The  old  woman 
seemed,  indeed,  positively  ubiquitous  as  she  bus 
tled  about,  forgetting  nothing,  packing,  suggest 
ing,  and,  spite  of  herself,  frequently  protesting  ; 
for,  if  the  truth  must  be  spoken,  this  move  to  the 
city  was  violating  all  the  traditions  of  mammy's 
life. 

"  Wh-wh-wh-why,  baby  !  Not  teck  de  grime- 
stone  !"  she  exclaimed  one  day,  in  reply  to  Eve 
lyn's  protest  against  her  packing  that  ponderous 
article.  "  How  is  we  gwine  sharpen  de  spade  an' 
de  grubbin'-hoe  ter  work  in  the  gyard'n  ?" 

"  We  sha'n't  have  a  garden,  mammy." 

"  No  gyard'n  !"  Mammy  sat  down  upon  the 
grindstone  in  disgust.  "  Wh-wh-wh-what  sort  o' 
a  fureign  no-groun'  place  is  we  gwine  ter, 
anyhow,  baby  ?  Honey  !"  she  continued,  in  a 
troubled  voice,  "  co'se  you  know  I  ain't  got  edu- 
catiom,  an'  I  ain't  claim  knowledge  ;  b-b-b-but 
ain't  you  better  study  on  it  good  'fo'  we  goes  ter 
dis  heah  new  country  ?  Dee  tells  me  de  cidy's  a 
owdacious  place.  I  been  heern  a  heap  o'  tales, 
but  I  'ain't  say  nothin'.  Is  yer  done  prayed  over 
it  good,  baby  ?" 


164  "BLINK" 

"  Yes,  dear.  I  have  prayed  that  we  should  do 
only  right.  What  have  you  heard,  mammy  ?" 

"  D-d-d-de  way  folks  talks,  look  like  death  an' 
terror  is  des  a-layin'  roun'  loose  in  de  cidy.  Dee 
tell  me  dat  ef  yer  des  nachelly  blows  out  yer 
light  fur  ter  go  ter  baid  dat  dis  heah  somehV 
what  stan'  fur  wick,  hit  '11  des  keep  a-sizzin'  an' 
a-sizzin'  out,  des  like  sperityal  steam  ;  an9  hit's 
clair  pizen  /" 

"That  is  true,  mammy.  But  you  see,  we  won't 
blow  it  out.  We'll  know  better." 

"  Does  yer  snuff  it  out  wid  snuffers,  baby, 
ur  des  fling  it  on  de  flo'  an'  tromp  yer  foots 
on  it  ?" 

"  Neither,  mammy.  The  gas  comes  in  through 
pipes  built  into  the  houses,  and  is  turned  on  and 
off  with  a  valve,  somewhat  as  we  let  water  out  of 
the  refrigerator." 

"  Um-hm  !  Well  done  !  Of  co'se  !  On'y,  in 
place  o'  water  what  put  out  de  light,  hit's  in'ardly 
filled  wid  someh'n'  what  favor  a  blaze." 

"  Exactly." 

Mammy  reflected  a  moment.  "  But  de  grime- 
stone  gotter  stay  berhime,  is  she  ?  An'  is  we 
gwine  leave  all  de  gyard'n  tools  an'  implemers  ter 
de  'Onerble  Mr.  Citified  ?" 

"  No,  mammy  ;  none  of  the  appurtenances  of 
the  homestead  are  mortgaged.  We  must  sell 
them.  We  need  money,  you  know." 

"  What  is  de  impertinences  o'  de  homestid, 
baby  ?  You  f orgits  I  ain't  on'erstan'  book  words." 


"BLINK"  165 

"Those  things  intended  for  family  use,  mam 
my.  There  are  the  carriage-horses,  the  cows,  the 
chickens — " 

"  Bless  goodness  fur  dat !  An'  who  gwine  drive 
'em  inter  de  cidy  fur  us,  honey?" 

"  Oh,  mammy,  we  must  sell  them  all." 

Mammy  was  almost  crying.  "An'  what  sort 
o*  entry  is  we  gwine  meek  inter  de  cidy,  honey 
—  empty  -  handed,  same  es  po'  white  trash  ? 
D-d-d-don't  yer  reck'n  we  b-b-better  teck  de  chick 
ens,  baby  ?  Yo'  ma  thunk  a  heap  o'  dem  Brahma 
hains  an'  dem  Clymoth  Rockers — dee  looks  so 
courageous." 

It  was  hard  for  Evelyn  to  refuse.  Mammy 
loved  everything  on  the  old  place. 

"  Let  us  give  up  all  these  things  now,  mammy  ; 
and  after  a  while,  when  I  grow  rich  and  famous, 
I'll  buy  you  all  the  chickens  you  want." 

At  last  preparations  were  over.  They  were  to 
start  to-morrow.  Mammy  had  just  returned  from 
a  last  tour  through  out-buildings  and  gardens, 
and  was  evidently  disturbed. 

"Honey,"  she  began,  throwing  herself  on  the 
step  at  Evelyn's  feet,  "  what  yer  reck'n  ?  Ole 
Muffly  is  a-sett'n'  on  fo'teen  aigs,  down  in  de  cot 
ton  seed.  W-w-we  can't  g'way  f'm  heah  an'  leave 
Muffly  a-sett'n',  hit  des  nachelly  can't  be  did. 
D-d-don't  yer  reck'n  dee'd  hoi'  back  de  morgans  a 
little,  tell  Muffly  git  done  sett'n'  ?" 

It  was  the  samo  old  story.  Mammy  would 
never  be  ready  to  go. 


166  "BLINK" 

"  But  our  tickets  are  bought,  mammy." 

"An'  like  as  not  de  'Onerble  Mr.  Citified  '11 
shoo  ole  Muffly  orf  de  nes'  an'  spile  de  whole 
sett'n'.  Tut !  tut !  tut !"  And  groaning  in  spirit, 
mammy  walked  off. 

Evelyn  had  feared,  for  her  father,  the  actual 
moment  of  leaving,  and  was  much  relieved  when, 
with  his  now  habitual  tranquillity,  he  smilingly 
assisted  both  her  and  mammy  into  the  sleeper. 
Instead  of  entering  himself,  however,  he  hesitated. 

"  Isn't  your  mother  coming,  daughter  ?"  he 
asked,  looking  backward.  "  Or — oh,  I  forgot," 
he  added,  quickly.  "She  has  gone  on  before, 
hasn't  she  ?" 

"Yes,  dear,  she  has  gone  before,"  Evelyn  an 
swered,  hardly  knowing  what  she  said,  the  chill 
of  a  new  terror  upon  her. 

What  did  this  mean  ?  Was  it  possible  that  she 
had  read  but  half  the  truth  ?  Was  her  father's 
mind  not  only  enfeebled,  but  going  ? 

Mammy  had  not  heard  the  question,  and  so 
Evelyn  bore  her  anxiety  alone,  and  during  the 
day  her  anxious  eyes  were  often  upon  her  father's 
face,  but  he  only  smiled  and  kept  silent. 

They  had  been  travelling  all  day,  when  sudden 
ly,  above  the  rumbling  of  the  train,  a  weak,  bird- 
like  chirp  was  heard,  faint  but  distinct ;  and  pres 
ently  it  came  again,  a  prolonged  "  p-e-e-p  !" 

Heads  went  up,  inquiring  faces  peered  up  and 
down  the  coach,  and  fell  again  to  paper  or  book, 
when  the  cry  came  a  third  time,  and  again. 


"BLINK"  167 

Mammy's  face  was  a  study.  "  'Sh — 'sh — 'sh  ! 
don'  say  nothin',  baby,"  she  whispered,  in  Eve 
lyn's  ear  ;  "  but  dis  heah  chicken  in  my  bosom  is 
a-ticklin'  me  so  I  can't  hardly  set  still." 

Evelyn  was  absolutely  speechless  with  surprise, 
as  mammy  continued  by  snatches  her  whispered 
explanation  : 

"  Des  'f o'  we  lef '  I  went  'n'  lif '  up  ole  Muffly 
ter  see  how  de  aigs  was  comin'  orn,  an'  dis  heah  aig 
was  pipped  out,  an'  de  little  risidenter  look  like 
he  eyed  me  so  berseechin'  I  des  nachelly  couldn't 
leave  'im.  Look  like  he  knowed  he  warn't  right 
eously  in  de  morgans,  an'  'e  crave  ter  clair  out  an' 
trabble.  I  did  hope  speech  wouldn't  come  ter  'im 
tell  we  got  off'n  deze  heah  train  kyars." 

A  halt  at  a  station  brought  a  momentary  si 
lence,  and  right  here  arose  again,  clear  and  shrill, 
the  chicken's  cry. 

Mammy  was  equal  to  the  emergency.  After 
glancing  inquiringly  up  and  down  the  coach,  she 
exclaimed  aloud,  "  Some'h'n'  in  dis  heah  kyar  soun' 
des  like  a  vintrilloquer." 

"That's  just  what  it  is,"  said  an  old  gentleman 
opposite,  peering  around  over  his  spectacles. 
"  And  whoever  you  are,  sir,  you've  been  amusing 
yourself  for  an  hour." 

Mammy's  ruse  had  succeeded,  and  during  the 
rest  of  the  journey,  although  the  chicken  devel 
oped  duly  as  to  vocal  powers,  the  only  question 
asked  by  the  curious  was,  "  Who  can  the  ventril 
oquist  be  ?" 


168  "BLINK" 

Evelyn  could  hardly  maintain  her  self-control, 
the  situation  was  so  utterly  absurd. 

"  I  does  hope  hit's  a  pullet,"  mammy  confided 
later ;  "  but  I  doubts  it.  Hit  done  struck  out  wid 
a  mannish  movemint  a'ready.  Muffly's  aigs  allus 
hatches  out  sech  invig'rous  chickens.  I  gwine  in 
de  dressin'-room,  baby,  an'  wrop  'im  up  agin.  Feel 
like  he  done  kicked  'isse'f  loose." 

Though  she  made  several  trips  to  the  dressing- 
room  in  the  interest  of  her  hatchling,  mammy's 
serene  face  held  no  betrayal  of  the  disturbing 
secret  of  her  bosom. 

At  last  the  journey  was  over.  The  train  crept 
with  a  tired  motion  into  the  noisy  depot.  Then 
came  a  rattling  ride  over  cobble-stones,  granite, 
and  unpaved  streets  ;  a  sudden  halt  before  a  low 
browed  cottage  ;  a  smiling  old  lady  stepping  out 
to  meet  them  ;  a  slam  of  the  front  door — they 
were  at  home  in  New  Orleans. 

Madame  Le  Due  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
nothing  that  their  comfort  required,  and  in  many 
ways  that  the  Creole  gentlewoman  understands 
so  well,  she  was  affectionately  and  unobtrusively 
kind.  And  yet,  in  the  life  Evelyn  was  seeking 
to  enter,  Madame  could  give  her  no  aid.  About 
all  these  new  ideas  of  women — ladies — going  out 
as  bread-winners,  Madame  knew  nothing.  For 
twenty  years  she  had  gone  only  to  the  cathedral, 
the  French  Market,  the  cemetery,  and  the  Chapel 
of  St.  Roche.  As  to  all  this  unconventional 
American  city  above  Canal  Street,  it  was  there 


"BLINK"  169 

and  spreading  (like  the  measles  and  other  evils) ; 
everybody  said  so  ;  even  her  paper,  L'Abeille,  re 
ferred  to  it  in  French— resentfully.  She  believed 
in  it  historically  ;  but  for  herself,  she  "  never 
travelled,"  excepting,  as  she  quaintly  put  it,  in  her 
"acquaintances" — the  French  streets  with  which 
she  was  familiar. 

The  house  Madame  had  selected  was  a  typical 
old-fashioned  French  cottage,  venerable  in  scaling 
plaster  and  fern-tufted  tile  roof,  but  cool  and 
roomy  within  as  uninviting  without.  A  small  in 
land  garden  surprised  the  eye  as  one  entered  the 
battened  gate  at  its  side,  and  a  dormer-window  in 
the  roof  looked  out  upon  the  rigging  of  ships  at 
anchor  but  a  stone's-throw  away. 

Here,  in  the  chamber  above,  Evelyn  installed 
her  father.  Furnishing  this  spacious  upper  room 
with  familiar  objects,  and  pointing  out  the  novel 
ties  of  the  view  from  its  window,  she  tried  to  in 
terpret  his  new  environment  happily  for  him,  and 
he  smiled,  and  seemed  content. 

It  was  surprising  to  see  how  soon  mammy  fell 
into  line  with  the  new  order  of  things.  The 
French  Market,  with  its  "  cuyus  fureign  folks  an' 
mixed  talk,"  was  a  panorama  of  daily  unfolding 
wonders  to  her.  "But  huccome  dee  calls  it 
French  ?"  she  exclaimed,  one  day.  "  I  been  lis- 
tenin'  good,  an'  I  hear  'em  jabber,  jabber,  jabber 
all  dey  fanciful  lingoes,  but  I  'ain't  heern  nair  one 
say  polly  fronsay,  an'  yit  I  know  dats  de  riverend 
book  French."  The  Indian  squaws  in  the  market, 


170  "  BLINK 


sitting  flat  on  the  ground,  surrounded  by  their 
wares,  she  held  in  special  contempt.  "I  hoi's 
myse'f  clair  'bove  a  Injun,"  she  boasted.  "Dee 
ain't  look  jinnywine  ter  me.  Dee  ain't  nuther 
white  folks  nur  niggers,  nair  one.  SettV  dee- 
selves  up  fur  go-betweens,  an'  sellin'  sech  grass- 
greens  as  we  lef  berhindt  us  growin'  in  de  wil 
derness  !" 

But  one  unfailing  source  of  pleasure  to  mammy 
was  the  little  chicken,  "Blink,"  who,  she  de 
clared,  "  named  'isse'f  Blink  de  day  he  blinked  at 
me  so  skancified  out'n  de  shell.  Blink  'ain't  said 
nothin'  wid  'is  mouf,"  she  continued,  eying  him 
proudly,  "'caze  he  know  eye -speech  set  on  a 
chicken  a  heap  better'n  human  words,  mo'  in- 
special  on  a  yo'ng  half-hatched  chicken  like  Blink 
was  dat  day,  cramped  wid  de  aig-shell  behime,  an' 
de  morgans  starin'  'im  in  de  face  befo',  an'  not 
knowin'  how  'e  gwine  come  out'n  'is  trouble.  He 
des  kep'  silence,  an'  wink  all  'is  argimints,  an'  'e 
wink  to  the  p'int,  too  !" 

In  spite  of  his  unique  entrance  into  the  world 
and  his  precarious  journey,  Blink  was  a  vigorous 
young  chicken,  with  what  mammy  was  pleased  to 
call  "a  good  proud  step  an'  knowin'  eyes." 

Three  months  passed.  The  long,  dull  summer 
was  approaching,  and  yet  Evelyn  had  found  no 
employment.  Advertised  positions  had  proven 
unsuitable  or  inaccessible,  and  indeed,  sometimes 
the  most  inviting  but  delusions  and  snares.  But 
Evelyn  had  not  been  idle.  Sewing  for  the  market- 


"BLINK"  171 

folk,  decorating  palmetto-fans  and  Easter-eggs, 
which  mammy  peddled  in  the  big  houses,  she  had 
earned  small  sums  of  money  from  time  to  time. 
Enforced  leisure  she  recognized  as  opportunity 
for  study,  and  her  picturesque  surroundings  an 
open  book. 

Impressions  of  the  quaint  old  French  and  Span 
ish  city,  with  its  motley  population,  were  careful 
ly  jotted  down  in  her  note -book.  These  first 
descriptions  she  afterward  rewrote,  discarding 
weakening  detail,  elaborating  the  occasional  triv 
iality  which  seemed  to  reflect  the  true  local  tint 
— a  nice  distinction,  involving  conscientious  hard 
work.  How  she  longed  for  criticism  and  advice  ! 

A  year  ago  her  father,  now  usually  dozing  in 
his  chair  while  she  worked,  would  have  been  a 
most  able  and  affectionate  critic  ;  but  now —  She 
rejoiced  when  a  day  passed  without  his  asking  for 
her  mother,  and  wondering  why  she  did  not  come. 

And  so  it  was  that  in  her  need  of  sympathy 
Evelyn  began  to  read  her  writings,  some  of  which 
had  grown  into  stories,  to  mammy.  The  very 
exercise  of  reading  aloud — the  sound  of  it — was 
helpful.  That  mammy's  criticisms  should  have 
proven  valuable  in  themselves  was  a  surprise,  but 
it  was  even  so. 

II. 

"A  pusson  would  know  dat  was  fanciful  de 
way  hit  reads  orf,  des  like  a  pusson  'magine 
some'hV  what  ain't  so." 


172  "  BLINK  " 

Such  was  mammy's  first  criticism  of  a  story 
which  had  just  come  back,  returned  from  an  ed 
itor.  Evelyn  had  been  trying  to  discover  wherein 
its  weakness  lay. 

Mammy  had  caught  the  truth.  The  story  was 
unreal.  The  English  seemed  good,  the  construc 
tion  fair,  but — it  was  "fanciful" 

The  criticism  set  Evelyn  to  thinking.  She  laid 
aside  this,  and  read  another  manuscript  aloud. 

"I  tell  yer,  honey,  a-a-a  pusson  'd  know  you 
had  educatiom,  de  way  you  c'n  fetch  in  de  dicksh'- 
nary  words." 

"Don't  you  understand  them,  mammy?"  she 
asked,  quickly,  catching  another  idea. 

"  Who,  me  ?  Law,  baby,  I  don't  crave  ter  on'er- 
stan'  all  dat  granjer.  I  des  ketches  de  chune,  an' 
hit  sho  is  got  a  glorified  ring." 

Here  was  a  valuable  hint.  She  must  simplify  her 
style.  The  tide  of  popular  writing  was,  she  knew,in 
the  other  direction,  but  the  best  writing  was  simple. 

The  suggestion  sent  her  back  to  study. 

And  now  for  her  own  improvement  she  rewrote 
the  "  story  of  big  words  "  in  the  simplest  English 
she  could  command,  bidding  mammy  tell  her  if 
there  was  one  word  she  could  not  understand. 

In  the  transition  the  spirit  of  the  story  was 
necessarily  changed,  but  the  exercise  was  good. 
Mammy  understood  every  wood. 

"But,  baby,"  she  protested,  with  a  troubled  face, 
"  look  like  hit  don't  start  no  mo*;  all  its  granjer 
done  gone.  You  better  fix  it  up  des  like  it  was 


"  BLINK  "  173 

befo',  honey.  Hit  'mines  me  o'  some  o'  deze  heah 
fine  folks  what  walks  de  streets.  You  know  folks 
what  'ain't  got  nothiri*  else,  dee  des  nachelly  'bleege 
ter  put  on  finery." 

How  clever  mammy  was  !  How  wholesome  the 
unconscious  satire  of  her  criticism !  This  story, 
shorn  of  its  grandeur,  could  not  stand  indeed.  It 
was  weak  and  affected. 

"  You  dear  old  mammy,"  exclaimed  Evelyn, 
"  you  don't  know  how  you  are  helping  me." 

"Gord  knows  Iwushes  I  could  holp  you,  honey. 
I  'ain't  nuver  is  craved  education!  befo',  but  now, 
look  like  I'd  like  ter  be  king  o'  all  de  smartness,  an' 
know  all  dey  is  in  de  books.  I  wouldn't  hoi'  back 
nutKn  f'om  yer,  baby." 

And  Evelyn  knew  it  was  true. 

"Look  ter  me,  baby,"  mammy  suggested,  an 
other  night,  after  listening  to  a  highly  imagina 
tive  story — "  look  ter  me  like  ef — ef — ef  you'd 
des  write  down  some  truly  truth  what  is  ac-chilly 
happened,  an'  glorify  it  wid  educatiom,  hit  'd  des 
nachelly  stan'  in  a  book." 

"  I've  been  thinking  of  that,"  said  Evelyn,  re 
flectively,  laying  aside  her  manuscript. 

"How  does  this  sound,  mammy?"  she  asked,  a 
week  later,  when,  taking  up  an  unfinished  story, 
she  began  to  read. 

It  was  the  story  of  their  own  lives,  dating  from 
the  sale  of  the  plantation.  The  names,  of  course, 
were  changed,  excepting  Blink's,  and,  indeed,  until 


174  "  BLINK  " 

he  appeared  upon  the  scene,  although  mammy  lis 
tened  breathless,  she  did  not  recognize  the  char 
acters.  Blink,  however,  was  unmistakable,  and 
when  he  announced  himself  from  the  old  wom 
an's  bosom  his  identity  flashed  upon  mammy,  and 
she  tumbled  over  on  the  floor,  laughing  and  cry 
ing  alternately.  Evelyn  had  written  from  her 
heart,  and  the  story,  simply  told,  held  all  the 
wrench  of  parting  with  old  associations,  while 
the  spirit  of  courage  and  hope,  which  animated 
her,  breathed  in  every  line  as  she  described  their 
entrance  upon  their  new  life. 

"  My  heart  was  teched  f 'om  de  fus',  baby,"  said 
mammy,  presently,  wiping  her  eyes  ;  "  b-b-b-but 
look  heah,  honey,  I'd — I'd  be  wuss'n  a  hycoprite 
ef  I  let  dat  noble  ole  black  'oman,  de  way  you 
done  specified  'er,  stan'  fur  me.  Y-y-yer  got 
ter  change  all  dat,  honey.  Dey  warn't  nothin' 
on  top  o'  dis  roun'  worl'  what  fetched  me  'long 
wid  y'  all  but  'cep'  'caze  I  des  nachelly  love  yer, 
an'  all  dat  book  granjer  what  you  done  laid  on 
me  I  don1  know  nothin'  't  all  about  it,  an'  yer  got 
ter  teck  it  orf,  an'  write  me  down  like  I  is,  des  a 
po'  ole  nigger  wha'  done  fell  in  wid  de  Gord- 
blessedes'  white  folks  wha'  ever  lived  on  dis 
yearth,  an' — an'  wha'  gwine  foller  'em  an'  stay 
by  'em,  don'  keer  whicherway  dee  go,  so  long  as 
'er  ole  ban's  is  able  ter  holp  'em.  Yer  got  ter 
change  all  dat,  honey. 

" But  Blink  !  De  laws-o'-mussy !  Maybe  hit's 
'caze  I  been  hatched  'im  an'  raised  'im,  but  look  ter 


"  BLINK  "  175 

me  like  he  ain't  no  disgrace  ter  de  story,  no  way. 
Seem  like  he  sets  orf  de  book.  Yer  ain't  gwine 
say  nothin'  'bout  Blink  bein'  a  frizzly,  is  yer? 
'Twouldn't  do  no  good  ter  tell  it  on  'im." 

"  I  didn't  know  it,  mammy." 

"  Yas,  indeedy.  Po'  Blink's  feathers  done  taken 
on  a  secon'  twis',"  she  replied,  with  maternal  so 
licitude.  "  I  d'  know  huccome  he  come  dat-a- 
way,  'caze  we  'ain't  nuver  is  had  no  frizzly  stock 
'mongs'  our  chickens.  Sometimes  I  b'lieve  Blink 
tumbled  'isse'f  up  dat-a-way  tryin'  ter  wriggle  'is- 
se'f  outn  de  morgans.  I  hates  it  mightily.  Look 
like  a  frizzly  can't  put  on  granjer  no  way,  don' 
keer  how  mannerly  'e  hoi'  'isse'f." 

The  progress  of  the  new  story,  which  mammy 
considered  under  her  especial  supervision,  was 
now  her  engrossing  thought. 

"  Yer  better  walk  straight,  Blink,"  she  would 
exclaim — "  yer  better  walk  straight  an'  step  high, 
'caze  yer  gwine  in  a  book,  honey,  'long  wid  de 
a'stokercy !" 

One  day  Blink  walked  leisurely  in  from  the  street, 
returning,  happily  for  mammy's  peace  of  mind,  be 
fore  he  had  been  missed.  He  raised  his  wings  a  mo 
ment  as  he  entered,  as  if  pleased  to  get  home,  and 
mammy  exclaimed,  as  she  burst  out  laughing : 

"  Don't  you  come  in  heah  shruggin'  yo'  shoul 
ders  at  me,  Blink,  an'  puttin'  on  no  French  airs. 
I  believe  Blink  been  out  teckin'  French  lessons," 
she  added,  as  she  shut  the  gate.  And  taking  her 
pet  into  her  arms,  she  continued,  addressing  him : 


178  "  BLINK  " 

"  Is  you  crave  ter  learn  f ureign  speech,  Blinky, 
like  de  res'  o'  dis  mixed-talkin'  settlemint  ?  Is 
you  'shamed  o'  yo'  country  voice,  honey,  an'  try- 
in'  ter  ketch  a  French  crow  ?  No,  'e  ain't,"  she 
added,  putting  him  down  at  last,  but  watching 
him  fondly.  "  Blink  know  he's  a  Bruce.  An'  he 
know  he's  folks  is  in  tribulatiom,  an'  hilar'ty  ain't 
bercome  'im  —  dat's  huccome  Blink  'ain't  crowed 
none — ain't  it,  Blink  ?" 

And  Blink  wisely  winked  his  knowing  eyes. 
That  he  had,  indeed,  never  proclaimed  his  roost- 
erhood  by  crowing  was  a  source  of  some  anxiety 
to  mammy. 

"  Maybe  Blink  don't  know  he's  a  rooster,"  she 
confided  to  Evelyn  one  day.  "  Sho  'nough,  honey, 
he  nuver  is  seed  none  !  De  neares'  ter  'isse'f  what 
he  knows  is  dat  ole  green  polly  what  set  in  de  fig- 
tree  nex'  do',  an'  talk  Gascon.  I  seed  Blink  ristid- 
d'y  stan'  an'  look  at  'im,  an'  den  look  down  at  'is- 
se'f ,  same  as  ter  say,  *  Is  I  a  polly,  ur  what  ?'  An' 
den  'e  open  an'  shet  'is  mouf ,  like  'e  tryin'  ter  twis' 
it,  polly-fashion,  an'  hit  won't  twis',  an'  den  'e  des 
shaken  'is  haid,  an'  walk  orf,  like  'e  heavy-hearted 
an'  mixed  in  'is  min'.  Blink  don'  know  what  'sporn- 
serbility  lay  on  'im  ter  keep  our  courage  up.  You 
heah  me,  Blink  !  Open  yo'  mouf,  an'  crow  out, 
like  a  man !" 

But  Blink  was  biding  his  time. 
During  this  time,  in  spite  of  strictest  economy, 
money  was  going  out  faster  than  it  came  in. 
"I  tell  yer  what  I  been  thinkin',  baby,"  said 


"BLINK"  177 

mammy,  as  she  and  Evelyn  discussed  the  situa 
tion.  "I  think  de  bes'  thing  you  can  do  is  ter 
hire  me  out.  I  can  cook  y'  alls  breckf us'  soon,  an' 
go  out  an'  meek  day's  work,  an'  come  home  plenty 
o'  time  ter  cook  de  little  speck  o'  dinner  you  an' 
ole  boss  needs." 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  You  mustn't  think  of  it,  mam 
my." 

"  But  what  we  gwine  do,  baby  ?  We  des  can't 
get  out'n  money.  Hit  won't  do  /" 

"Maybe  I  should  have  taken  that  position  as 
lady's  companion,  mammy." 

"An'  stay  'way  all  nights  f'om  yo'  pa,  when  you 
de  onlies'  light  ter  'is  eyes  ?  No,  no,  honey  !" 

"  But  it  has  been  my  only  offer,  and  sometimes 
I  think—" 

"  Hush  talkin'  dat-a-way,  baby.  Don't  yer  pray  ? 
An'  don't  yer  trus'  Gord  ?  An'  ain't  yer  done 
walked  de  streets  tell  you  mos'  drapped  down, 
lookin'  fur  work  ?  An'  can't  yer  teck  de  hint  dat 
de  Lord  done  laid  orf  yo'  work  right  heah  in  de 
house  f  You  go  'long  now,  an'  cheer  up  yo'  pa, 
des  like  you  been  doin',  an'  study  yo'  books,  an' 
write  down  true  joy  an'  true  sorrer  in  yo'  stories, 
an'  glorify  Gord  wid  yo'  sense,  an'  don't  pester 
yo'se'f  'bout  ter-day  an'  ter-morrer,  an' — an' — an' 
ef  de  gorspil  is  de  trufe,  an' — an'  ef  a  po'  ole  nig 
ger's  pra'rs  mounts  ter  Heaven  on  de  wings  o' 
faith,  Gord  ain't  gwine  let  a  hair  o'  yo'  haid  per 
ish." 

But  mammy  pondered  in  her  heart  much  con- 
12 


178  "  BLINK  " 

cerning  the  financial  outlook,  and  it  was  on  the 
day  after  this  conversation  that  she  dressed  her 
self  with  unusual  care,  and,  without  announcing 
her  errand,  started  out.  , 

Her  return  soon  brought  its  own  explanation, 
however,  for  upon  her  old  head  she  bore  a  huge 
bundle  of  unlaundered  clothing. 

"  What  in  the  world  !"  exclaimed  Evelyn  ;  but 
before  she  could  voice  a  protest,  mammy  inter 
rupted  her. 

"  Nuver  you  min',  baby  !  I  des  waked  up," 
she  exclaimed,  throwing  her  bundle  at  the  kitch 
en  door.  "  I  been  preachin'  ter  you  'bout  teckin' 
hints,  an'  'ain't  been  readin'  my  own  lesson.  Hue- 
come  we  got  dis  heah  nice  sunny  back  yard,  an' 
dis  bustin'  cisternful  o'  rain-water?  Huccome  de 
boa'din'-house  folks  at  de  corner  keeps  a-passin' 
an'  a-passin'  by  dis  gate  wid  all  dey  fluted  finery 
orn,  ef  'twarn't  ter  gimme  a  hint  dat  dey's  wealth 
a-layin'  at  de  do',  an'  me,  bline  as  a  bat,  'ain't  seen 
it?" 

"  Oh,  but,  mammy,  you  can't  take  in  washing. 
You  are  too  old ;  it  is  too  hard.  You  mustn't — " 

"  Ef-ef-ef-ef  you  gits  obstropulous,  I-I-I  gwine 
whup  yer,  sho.  Y-y-yer  know  how  much  money's 
a-comin'  out'n  dat  bundle,  baby  ?  Five  dollars  /" 
This  in  a  stage-whisper.  "  An'  not  a  speck  o'  dirt 
on  nothin';  des  baby  caps  an'  lace  doin's  rumpled 
up." 

"  How  did  you  manage  it,  mammy  ?" 

"  Well,  baby,  I  des  put  on  my  fluted  ap'on — an1 


179 

you  know  it's  ironed  purty — an'  my  clair-starched 
neck-hankcher,  an' — an'  my  business  face,  an'  I  belt 
up  my  haid  an'  walked  in,  an'  axed  good  prices, 
an'  de  ladies,  dee  des  tooken  took  one  good  look 
at  me,  an'  gimme  all  I'd  carry.  You  know  wash- 
in'  an'  ironin'  is  my  pleasure,  baby." 

It  was  useless  to  protest,  and  so,  after  a  mo 
ment,  Evelyn  began  rolling  up  her  sleeves. 

"  I  am  going  to  help  you,  mammy,"  she  said, 
quietly  but  firmly;  but  before  she  could  protest, 
mammy  had  gathered  her  into  her  arms,  and  car 
ried  her  into  her  own  room.  Setting  her  down  at 
her  desk,  she  exclaimed  : 

"Now,  ef  you  goes  ter  de  wash-tub,  dey  ain't 
nothin'  lef  fur  me  ter  do  but  'cep'n  ter  set  down 
an'  write  de  story,  an'  you  know  I  can't  do  it." 

"But,  mammy,  I  must  help  you." 

"  Is  you  gwine  meek  me  whup  yer,  whe'r  ur  no, 
baby?  Now  I  gwine  meek  a  bargain  wid  yer. 
You  set  down  an'  write,  an'  I  gwine  play  de  pian- 
ner  on  de  washbode,  an'  ter-night  you  c'n  read  orf 
what  yer  done  put  down,  an'  ef  yer  done  written 
it  purty  an'  sweet,  you  c'n  come  an'  turn  de  flut- 
in'-machine  fur  me  ter-morrer.  Yer  gwine  meek 
de  bargain  wid  me,  baby  ?" 

Evelyn  was  so  touched  that  she  had  not  voice 
to  answer.  Rising  from  her  seat,  she  put  her  arms 
around  mammy's  neck  and  kissed  her  old  face,  and 
as  she  turned  away  a  tear  rolled  down  her  cheek. 
And  so  the  "  bargain  "  was  sealed. 

Before  going  to  her  desk  Evelyn  went  to  her 


180  "  BLINK  " 

father,  to  see  that  he  wanted  nothing.  He  sat,  as 
usual,  gazing  silently  out  of  the  window. 

"Daughter,"  said  he,  as  she  entered,  "are  we 
in  France?" 

"  No,  dear,"  she  answered,  startled  at  the  ques 
tion. 

"But  the  language  I  hear  in  the  street  is 
French  ;  and  see  the  ship  masts — French  flags 
flying.  But  there  is  the  German  too,  and  Eng 
lish,  and  last  week  there  was  a  Scandinavian. 
Where  are  we  truly,  daughter  ?  My  surroundings 
confuse  me." 

"  We  are  in  New  Orleans,  father — in  the  French 
Quarter.  Ships  from  almost  everywhere  come  to 
this  port,  you  know.  Let  us  walk  out  to  the 
levee  this  morning,  and  see  the  men-of-war  in 
the  river.  The  air  will  revive  you." 

"Well,  if  your  mother  comes  ?  She  might  come 
while  we  were  away." 

And  so  it  was  always.  With  her  heart  trem 
bling  within  her,  Evelyn  went  to  her  desk.  "  Sure 
ly,"  she  thought,  "  there  is  much  need  that  I 
shall  do  my  best."  Almost  reverentially  she  took 
her  pen,  as  she  proceeded  with  the  true  story  she 
had  begun. 

"  I  done  changed  my  min'  'bout  dat  ole  'oman 
wha'  stan'  fur  me,  baby,"  said  mammy  that  night. 
"  You  leave  'er  des  like  she  is.  She  glorifies  de 
story  a  heap  better'n  my  nachel  se'f  could  do  it. 
I  been  a-thinkin'  'bout  it,  an'  de  finer  that  ole 


"  BLINK  "  181 

9 oman  ac',  an*  de  mo1  granjer  yer  lay  on  'er,  de 
better  yer  gwine  meek  de  book,  'caze  de  ole  gemp- 
lum  wha'  stan'  fur  ole  marster,  his  times  an'  sea 
sons  is  done  past,  an'  he  can't  do  nothin'  but  set 
still  an'  wait,  an' — an'  de  yo'ng  missus,  she  ain't 
fitten  ter  wrastle  on  de  outskirts ;  she  ain't  noth 
in'  but  'cep'  des  a  lovin'  sweet  saint,  wid  'er  face 
set  ter  a  high,  far  mark — " 

"  Hush,  mammy  !" 

"  Tm  a-talkin'  'bout  de  book,  baby,  an1  don't  you 
interrup1  me  no  mo1 !  An'  I  say  ef  dis  ole  'oman 
who*  stan'  fur  me,  ef-ef-ef  she  got  a  weak  spot  in 
'er,  dey  won't  be  no  story  to  it.  She  de  one  wha' 
got  ter  stan'  by  de  battlemints  an'  hoi'  de  fort." 

"  That's  just  what  you  are  doing,  mammy. 
There  isn't  a  grain  in  her  that  is  finer  than 
you." 

"  'Sh  !  dis  ain't  no  time  fur  foolishness,  baby. 
Yer  'ain't  said  nothin'  'bout  yo'  ma  an'  de  ole  black 
'oman's  baby  bein'  borned  de  same  day,  is  yer  ? 
An'  how  de  ole  'oman  nussed  'em  bofe  des  like 
twins?  An' — an'  how  folks  'cused  'er  o'  starvin' 
'er  own  baby  on  de  'count  o'  yo'  ma  bein'  puny  ? 
(But  dat  warn't  true.)  Maybe  yer  better  leave 
all  dat  out,  'caze  hit  mought  spile  de  story." 

"  How  could  it  spoil  it,  mammy  ?" 

"  Don't  yer  see,  ef  folks  knowed  dat  dem  white 
folks  an'  dat  ole  black  'oman  was  dat  close-t,  dey 
wouldn't  be  no  principle  in  it !  Dey  ain't  nothin' 
but  love  in  dat,  an'  de  ole  'oman  couldn't  he'p 
'erse'f,  no  mo'n  I  could  he'p  it!  No  right-minded 


182  "  BLINK  " 

pusson  is  gwine  ter  deny  dey  own  heart.  Yer 
better  leave  all  dat  out,  honey.  B-b-but  deys 
some'hV  else  wha'  been  lef  out,  wha'  b'long  in 
de  book.  Yer  ain't  named  de  way  de  little  mistus 
sot  up  all  nights  an'  nussed  de  ole  'oman  time 
she  was  sick,  an' — an' — an'  de  way  she  sew  all  de 
ole  'oman's  cloze  ;  an' — an' — an'  yer  done  lef '  out 
a  heap  o'  de  purtiness  an'  de  sweetness  o'  de 
yo'ng  missis  !  Dis  is  a  book,  baby,  an' — an' — 
yer  boun'  ter  do  jestice  !" 

In  this  fashion  the  story  was  written. 

"And  what  do  you  think  I  am  going  to  do 
with  it,  mammy  ?"  said  Evelyn,  when  finally,  hav 
ing  done  her  very  best,  she  was  willing  to  call  it 
finished. 

"  Yer  know  some'h'n',  baby  ?  Ef-ef-ef  I  had 
de  money,  look  like  I'd  buy  dat  story  myse'f. 
Seem  some  way  like  I  loves  it.  Co'se  I  couldn't 
read  it  ;  but  my  min'  been  on  it  so  long,  seem 
like,  ef  I'd  study  de  pages  good  dee'd  open  up  ter 
me.  What  yer  gwine  do  wid  it,  baby?" 

"  Oh,  mammy,  I  can  hardly  tell  you  !  My 
heart  seems  in  my  throat  when  I  dare  to  think 
of  it  ;  but  Pm  going  to  try  it.  A  New  York 
magazine  has  offered  five  hundred  dollars  for  a 
best  story— -Jive  hundred  dollars  !  Think,  mam 
my,  what  it  would  do  for  us  !" 

"  Dat  wouldn't  buy  de  plantation!  back,  would 
it,  baby  ?"  Mammy  had  no  conception  of  large 
sums. 

"  We  don't  want  it  back,  mammy.     It  would 


183 

pay  for  moving  our  dear  ones  to  graves  of 
their  own  ;  we  should  put  a  nice  sum  in  bank ; 
you  shouldn't  do  any  more  washing  ;  and  if  we 
can  write  one  good  story,  you  know  we  can  write 
more.  It  will  be  only  a  beginning." 

"  An'  I  tell  yer  what  I  gwine  do.  I  gwine  pray 
over  it  good,  des  like  I  been  doin'  f 'om  de  start, 
an'  ef  hit's  Gord's  will,  dem  folks  '11  be  moved  in 
de  sperit  ter  sen'  'long  de  money." 

And  so  the  story  was  sent. 

After  it  was  gone  the  atmosphere  seemed 
brighter.  The  pending  decision  was  now  a  fixed 
point  to  which  hope,  no  longer  a  vague  abstrac 
tion,  tended. 

The  very  audacity  of  the  effort  seemed  inspira 
tion  to  more  ambitious  work,  and  during  the  long 
summer,  while  in  her  busy  hands  the  fluting- 
machine  went  round  and  round,  Evelyn's  mind 
was  full  of  plans  for  the  future. 

Finally,  December,  with  its  promise  of  the  mo 
mentous  decision,  was  come,  and  Evelyn  found 
herself  full  of  anxious  misgivings. 

What  merit  entitling  it  to  special  consideration 
had  the  little  story  ?  Did  it  bear  the  impress  of 
self -forgetful,  conscientious  purpose,  or  was  this 
a  thing  only  feebly  struggling  into  life  within 
herself — not  yet  the  compelling  force  that  indel 
ibly  stamps  itself  upon  the  earnest  labor  of  con 
secrated  hands?  How  often  in  the  silent  hours 
of  night  did  she  ask  herself  questions  like  this  ! 

At  last  it  was  Christmas  Eye  again,  and  Satur- 


184  "BLINK" 

day  night.  When  the  days  are  dark,  what  is  so 
depressing  as  an  anniversary  —  an  anniversary 
joyous  in  its  very  essence  ?  How  one  Christmas 
brings  in  its  train  memory-pictures  of  those  gone 
before  ! 

This  had  been  a  hard  day  for  Evelyn.  Her 
heart  felt  weak  within  her,  and  yet,  realizing  that 
she  alone  represented  youth  and  hope  in  the  little 
household,  and  feeling  need  that  her  own  cour 
age  should  be  sustained,  she  had  been  more  than 
usually  merry  all  day.  She  had  clandestinely 
prepared  little  surprises  for  her  father  and  mam 
my,  and  was  both  amused  and  touched  to  discover 
the  old  woman  secreting  mysterious  little  parcels 
which  she  knew  were  to  come  to  her  to-morrow. 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  funny  if,  after  all,  I  should 
turn  out  to  be  only  a  good  washer- woman,  mam 
my  ?"  she  said,  laughing,  as  she  assisted  the  old 
woman  in  pinning  up  a  basket  of  laundered 
clothing. 

"  Hit  'd  be  funnier  yit  ef  Pd  turn  out  inter 
one  o'  deze  heah  book-writers,  wouldn't  it  ?"  And 
mammy  laughed  heartily  at  her  own  joke.  "Look 
like  I  better  study  my  a-b  abs,  f us',  let  'lone  put- 
tin'  'em  back  on  paper  wid  a  pen.  I  tell  you 
educatiom's  a-spreadin'  in  dis  fam'ly,  sho.  Time 
Blink  run  over  de  sheet  out  a-bleachin'  'is^Wdy, 
he  written  a  Chinese  letter  all  over  it.  Didn't 
you,  Blink  ?  What  de  matter  wid  Blink  any 
how,  to-day?"  she  added,  taking  the  last  pin 
from  her  head-kerchief.  "Blink  look  like  he 


"BLINK"  185 

nervous  some  way  's  evenin'.  He  keep  a-walk> 
in'  roun',  an'  winkin'  so  slow,  an'  retchin'  'is 
neck  out  de  back  do'  so  cuyus.  Stop  a-battin' 
yo'  eyes  at  me,  Blink  !  Ef  yo'  got  some'h'n  ter 
say,  say  it  1" 

A  sudden  noisy  rattle  of  the  iron  door-knocker 
— mammy  trotting  to  the  door— the  postman — a 
letter  !  It  all  happened  in  a  minute. 

How  Evelyn's  heart  throbbed  and  her  hand 
trembled  as  she  opened  the  envelope  !  "  Oh, 
mammy !"  she  cried,  trembling  now  like  an  aspen 
leaf.  "  Thank  God!" 

"Is  dee  d-d-d-done  sont  de  money,  baby?" 
Her  old  face  was  twitching  too. 

But  Evelyn  could  not  answer.  Nodding  her 
head,  she  fell  sobbing  on  mammy's  shoulder. 

Mammy  raised  her  apron  to  her  eyes,  and 
there's  no  telling  what  "foolishness  "  she  might 
have  committed  had  it  not  been  that  suddenly, 
right  at  her  side,  arose  a  most  jubilant  screech. 

Blink,  perched  on  the  handle  of  the  clothes- 
basket,  was  crowing  with  all  his  might. 

Evelyn,  startled,  raised  her  head,  and  laughed 
through  her  tears,  while  mammy  threw  herself  at 
full  length  upon  the  floor,  shouting  aloud. 

"  Tell  me  chickens  ain't  got  secon'-sight  !"  she 
exclaimed,  finally,  wiping  her  eyes.  "  Blink  see'd 
— he  see'd —  Laws-o'-mussy,  baby,  look  yonder 
at  dat  little  yaller  rooster  stan'in'  on  de  fence. 
Dat  what  Blink  see.  Co'se  it  is  !" 


JESSEKIAH  BROWN'S  COURTSHIP 


JESSEKIAH  BROWN'S  COUETSHIP 

TESSEKIAH  BROWN,  a  fat,  bow-legged  fel- 
^J  low  of  forty  years  or  thereabouts,  enjoyed  the 
double  distinction  of  being  the  fattest  man  as 
well  as  the  oldest  bachelor  of  his  color  on  the 
plantation. 

He  had  been  a  general  beau  in  colored  circles 
ever  since  he  had  begun  to  wear  shoes  to  church, 
about  twenty-five  years  ago.  The  "  young  ladies  " 
he  had  "gone  with"  and  "had  feelin's  about" 
were  now  staid  matrons,  mothers  of  grown  sons 
and  daughters,  and  yet  Jessekiah  had  never  been 
known  to  speak  a  serious  word  of  love  to  any 
woman. 

It  was  a  common  thing  for  the  old  wives  on  the 
place  to  say,  as  they  sat  together  on  the  levee  and 
laughed  to  see  him  still  playing  the  beau,  "Po* 
Ki !  I  don't  b'lieve  pos'tive  he  know  how  ter  out 
an'  out  cote  a  gal  !" 

And  this  was  true,  or  at  least  it  was  half  the 
truth.  The  other  half  was  that  Jessekiah  had 
never  been  able  to  make  up  his  mind  decidedly  as 
to  the  identical  woman  he  wished  to  marry. 

His  was  a  case  of  ultra  all-round  susceptibility 
resulting  in  an  embarrassment  of  emotions.  It  is 


190  JESSEKIAH    BROWN'S    COURTSHIP 

probable  that  a  certain  indecision  amounting  to  a 
psychological  idiosyncrasy  had  descended  to  Ki 
by  direct  maternal  inheritance,  as  it  is  related  on 
reliable  authority  that  his  good  mother  had  been 
utterly  unable,  even  while  she  stood  at  the  bap 
tismal  font  with  her  babe,  to  decide  whether  his 
name  should  be  Jesse  or  Hezekiah,  and  an  embar 
rassed  effort  to  change  it  at  the  last  moment  re 
sulted  in  the  unique  cognomen  which  distin 
guished  him  through  life. 

There  had  been  times  in  Jessekiah's  life  when 
he  had  almost  decided  that  some  special  woman 
was  the  undisputed  possessor  of  his  affections,  but 
they  were  fleeting  moments. 

On  the  old  levee  just  opposite  his  present  cabin 
he  had  once  been  sitting  with  Diana  Forbes,  a 
copper-skinned  lass  of  seventeen  years,  for  whom 
he  had  long  confessed  a  soft  spot  in  his  soft  heart, 
and  the  moonlight  and  a  white  gown  she  wore  on 
that  occasion  had  settled  the  question  —  for  the 
moment. 

He  had  even  gotten  as  far  as  "Roses"  in  his 
avowal  of  love,  when  a  silvery  laugh,  descending 
all  the  way  from  high  C  to  inaudibility,  had  float 
ed  to  him  from  the  quarters. 

Jessekiah  could  never  propose  to  another  girl 
while  he  heard  Silv'y  Simms  laugh,  and  so,  in 
stead  of  saying  "Roses  is  red  an'  vi'lets  blue," 
and  becoming  hopelessly  involved  on  the  second 
line,  he  had  coughed  and  remarked  : 

"  Roses  smells  a  heap  mo'  sweeter,  ter  my  min', 


JESSEKIAH  BROWN'S  COURTSHIP  191 

'n  honeysuckles  does.     Which  you  lak  de  moes', 
Miss  Diana  ?" 

And  so  the  crisis  had  passed. 

The  only  distinction  Ki  had  attained  as  a  per 
son  of  superior  years  among  the  youth  of  the 
plantation  was  the  title  of  brother. 

"  Brer  Brown  "  had  long  ago  "  professed,"  and 
while  never  attaining  any  celebrity  either  as  a 
speaker  or  worker  in  the  fold,  neither  had  he  in 
troduced  shame  in  any  shape,  which  was  saying  a 
good  deal. 

Ki's  life,  as  care-free  as  that  of  the  humming 
bird  that  flits  at  will  from  flower  to  flower,  and 
apparently  as  sunny  and  bright,  was  yet  not  with 
out  its  trials.  For  years  a  certain  single  woman 
on  the  place,  as  huge  as  himself,  hence  familiarly 
known  as  "  Fat  Ann,"  had  been  his  Mte  noire. 

It  was  not  enough  that  every  one  took  special 
delight  in  teasing  him  about  her,  but  the  woman 
herself,  in  spite  of  years  of  avoidance  on  his  part, 
seemed  to  have  a  fancy  for  him. 

The  bitterest  hours  of  Ki's  life  had  been  on  ac 
count  of  Fat  Ann. 

Any  joke  that  threw  their  names  together,  any 
premeditated  pairing  off  of  couples  that  left  him 
as  her  escort,  was  regarded  as  great  fun.  And  it 
was  one  of  those  jokes  that  never  wear  out. 

So  it  happened  that  on  a  certain  memorable  oc 
casion  Ki,  suddenly  finding  himself  allotted  to 
walk  with  her  at  a  cake  walk,  actually  disgraced 
his  manhood  by  genuine  tears. 


192  JESSEKIAH    BROWN'S   COURTSHIP 

Happily,  however,  they  were  not  shed  in  Ann's 
presence,  and  when  she  met  him  with  a  smiling 
salutation,  and  took  his  arm  with  her  best  effort 
at  a  flourish,  there  was  something  within  him  that 
felt  challenged  to  a  best  effort — for  in  his  heart 
poor  Jessekiah  was  something  of  a  gentleman — 
and  the  result  was  that,  amidst  uproarious  cheer 
ing,  Ki  and  Ann,  fat,  bow-legs,  and  all  notwith 
standing,  took  the  cake. 

This  teased  Ki  even  more  than  the  walking  had 
done.  Nor  was  this  all :  it  brought  him  suddenly 
up  to  the  point  of  revolt. 

When  he  went  home  that  night  his  frame  of 
mind  was  altogether  unbecoming  a  Christian,  not 
to  say  a  Methodist. 

Instead  of  going  quietly  to  his  cabin  and  to 
bed,  as  he  should  have  done,  he  walked  out  upon 
the  levee  alone,  and  with  head  uncovered  in  the 
moonlight,  while  he  mopped  off  his  forehead,  he 
swore  that  he  wouldn't,  so  help  him,  "  stan'  one 
speck  mo'  o'  dis  cornfounded,  doggorned,  plague- 
taked  nornsense  !"  ' 

He  had  wept  before  he  had  stepped  out  into  the 
arena  with  Ann  to  walk  for  the  cake,  and  now, 
having  done  his  duty  fully,  manfully,  having  ami 
ably  served  as  her  "pardner"  for  the  remainder  of 
the  evening,  and  courteously  escorted  her  home, 
having  deposited  his  own  portion  of  the  hated 
cake  in  the  river,  he  wept  again. 

When  Ki  joined  his  companions  in  the  field 
next  day,  there  was  something  in  his  face  which 


JESSEKIAH  BROWN'S  COURTSHIP  198 

forbade  any  allusion  to  the  incident  of  the  night 
before.  It  was  a  new  dignity,  the  dignity  'of  a 
fixed  resolve. 

As  he  had  walked  alone  at  midnight  on  the 
levee  after  spending  his  emotion  in  tears,  he  had 
reviewed  the  situation  with  a  calm  scrutiny,  and 
he  saw  clearly  that  there  were  but  two  honorable 
ways  out  of  his  dilemma. 

He  could  not  run  away.  The  world  beyond  the 
community  of  the  coast  meant  little  more  to  Ki 
than  the  planet  Mars.  An  open  revolt  would  be 
a  personal  insult  to  the  lady  in  question.  To  be 
forever  freed  from  all  association  with  this  hated, 
detested  woman,  he  must  either  marry — or  die. 

Life  was  sweet  to  Ki.  Death,  even  palliated 
with  the  consolations  of  religion,  had  never  lost 
its  terror  to  him.  Marriage,  on  the  other  hand — 
Ki  actually  giggled  foolishly  to  himself  as  he 
contemplated  it  as  an  actual  probability — had  al 
ways  been  an  inviting  prospect,  and  so  to-night, 
sitting  alone  beneath  the  stars,  he  registered  a 
vow — a  sacred  vow  to  marry. 

The  resolution  had  no  sooner  possessed  him, 
however,  than  he  began  to  question  himself  as 
to  whom,  of  all  the  girls  he  knew,  he  should 
select. 

For  one  thing,  she  must  be  slim.  If  there  was 
anything  that  in  his  present  state  of  mind  he 
hated  more  than  everything  else  in  creation,  it 
was  fat.  He  ran  over  in  his  mind  the  names  of 
the  several  slender  girls  of  his  acquaintance,  hesi- 
13 


194  JESSEKIAH 

tating  and  chuckling  afresh  over  each  at  the  idea 
of  her  actually  becoming  Mrs.  Brown. 

The  enumeration  complete,  he  found  himself 
sadly  lapsing  into  his  old  state  of  indecision.  He 
would  to-night,  at  the  toss  of  a  penny — or  per 
haps  it  would  be  better  to  say  at  the  toss  of  her 
head — have  been  happy  to  wed  any  one  of  seven 
sweet  dusky  maidens,  varying  as  to  complexion, 
temper,  and  general  character,  but  all  willowy  and 
slender. 

A  realization  of  his  irresolution  even  now,  in 
the  extremity  of  his  woe,  filled  him  with  dismay, 
but  his  desperation  had  carried  him  for  once  safe 
ly  beyond  the  possibility  of  retreat. 

If  he  could  not  in  a  moment  make  up  his  mind 
whom  he  most  desired,  he  could  at  least  resolve 
that  he  would  not  put  his  foot  out  of  his  cabin, 
excepting  to  go  to  the  field,  until  he  should  decide. 

Calmed  with  this  resolution,  Ki  finally  repaired 
to  his  cabin,  and  found  forgetfulness  in  sleep. 

A  week  passed,  and  another.  In  the  evenings, 
seated  alone  upon  his  door-step,  or  within  the 
broad  crotch  of  a  log  of  drift-wood  that  lay  em 
bedded  in  the  outer  levee  beyond  his  gate,  Ki  still 
agonized  in  indecision. 

The  threatened  failure  of  the  old  embankment 
had  last  year  sent  a  new  levee  into  the  heart  of 
the  plantation,  and  for  a  considerable  distance 
here  it  ran  close  against  a  nest  of  negro  quarters. 
Ki's  cabin,  sitting  somewhat  apart  from  the  others, 
at  the  point  of  divergence  of  the  two  banks,  com- 


JESSEKIAH    BROWN'S    COURTSHIP  195 

manded  an  easy  approach  to  both.  The  low  land 
between  the  two  levees,  a  safe  play-ground  for  the 
children  when  the  river  was  low,  was  now  covered 
with  shallow  water. 

After  a  third  week  of  painful  indecision,  Ki 
made  a  little  progress.  He  decided  that  he  could 
never  decide — and  of  this  decision  was  born  a  plan 
of  relief. 

"  Look  lak  I  mus'  be  one  o'  deze  heah  reg'lar 
Mormondizers,  an'  want  'em  all,"  he  had  been 
moaning  to  himself,  when  suddenly  his  reverie 
began  to  take  shape  in  this  fashion :  "  Ef  a  man 
go  a-huntin'  all  day,  an'  can't  meek  up  'is  min'  what 
bird  he  want  ter  shoot,  he  gwine  come  home  wid 
a  empty  game-bag  ev'y  time." 

Then  something  within  him  had  seemed  to  an 
swer.  "Yas,  an'  de  bes'  thing  he  c'n  do  is  ter 
stay  home  an'  set  a  trap,  an'  pray  Gord  ter  sen'  de 
right  bird  ter  'im." 

It  was  an  inspiration.  Ki  was  so  pleased  with 
the  idea  that  he  answered  it  aloud  :  "  Dat's  hit ! 
Dat's  hit  !  Dat's  des  what  I  gwine  do.  I  gwine 
buiP  me  a— gwine  buil'  me  a — gwine  buil' — "  and 
he  fell  to  meditating  again.  "  Gwine  buil'  me  a 
fine  fancified  seat,  right  out  heah  on  dis  ole  levee, 
side  o'  dis  lorg,  an' — an'  de  fus'  gal  dat  sets  in  it — 
My  Gord  !  whyn't  I  thunk  about  dis  befo'  ?  De 
fus'  gal  what  set  down  in  it  gwine  be  Mrs.  Jesse- 
kiah  Brown — ef  she  do  lak  I  say  /" 

He  was  happier  than  he  had  been  since  the  cake- 
walk.  Throwing  himself  down  upon  the  grass,  he 


196  JESSEKIAH    BROWN'S    COURTSHIP 

rolled  over  and  over,  chuckling  aloud.  The  chair, 
a  quaint  affair  made  of  pine  saplings,  and  finished 
with  arms  of  gnarled  twigs,  was  the  work  of  sev 
eral  mornings,  and  when  at  last  it  was  finished, 
even  to  the  not  inartistic  braiding  of  cross-twigs 
into  an  easy  head-rest,  Ki  was  as  happy  over  it  as 
a  child  with  a  new  toy. 

"  Come  'long,  Mis'  Brown,  honey.  Teck  yo'  seat, 
my  love,  an'  set  down,"  he  exclaimed,  giggling 
foolishly  as  he  moved  back  to  his  notch  in  the  log, 
and  glanced  up  at  the  imaginary  occupant  of  the 
seat. 

He  felt  almost  as  if  his  wedding  invitations 
were  already  out ;  and  yet  no  sooner  did  he  pict 
ure  any  special  one  enthroned  beside  him  than  his 
mind  reverted  with  a  pang  to  half  a  dozen  others. 
His  only  safety  lay  in  the  sacredness  of  his  oath. 
He  had  sworn,  and  called  on  God  to  witness  his 
pledge,  that  he  would  ask  the  first  woman  who  sat 
here  to  marry  him,  and  he  would  do  it. 

For  the  first  week  after  its  completion  Ki 
watched  the  chair  from  his  window  with  a  timor 
ous  nervousness,  expecting,  hoping,  and  yet  fear 
ing  at  any  time  to  look  out  upon  the  future  Mrs. 
Brown. 

But  a  month  passed,  and  she  did  not  come,  and 
although  Ki  managed  to  preserve  a  calm  exterior, 
and  had  replied  to  all  inquiries  as  to  his  retire 
ment  that  he  "had  done  got  tired  out  o'  s'ciety 
an'  had  done  settled  down,"  he  was  growing  des 
perately  weary  of  it. 


JESSBKIAH  BKOWN'S  COURTSHIP  197 

The  "  settling  down  "  had,  however,  by  slow 
degrees  resulted  in  a  decidedly  improved  state  of 
affairs  at  Ki's  cabin. 

When  the  little  one-roomed  hut  had  been  only 
a  place  to  keep  his  garden  tools,  to  hang  up  his 
saddle,  and  to  "  turn  in  "  himself  as  a  last  resort 
to  sleep  at  night,  it  had  been  a  small  matter  that 
the  front  yard  was  overrun  with  cockleburs  and 
"  jimsonweed  "  ;  that  the  rank,  malodorous  gourd- 
vine  that  straggled  over  the  remains  of  last  year's 
bean  poles  to  embrace  his  mud  chimney  was  a  har 
bor  for  wasps,  lizards,  and  the  brilliant  spiders 
that  spun  their  filmy  wheels  in  every  available 
space.  It  hadn't  mattered  that  the  corners  of  his 
room  and  his  mosquito -netting  were  decorated 
with  this  same  delicate  tracery,  and  that  the  high- 
water  mark  from  the  last  crevasse  had  supplied 
the  walls  of  his  apartment  with  a  unique  dado  of 
decay — a  dado  done  in  low  brown  tones,  with 
strong  stucco  effects  in  green,  close  -  clinging 
mosses. 

It  is,  possibly,  not  exceptional  that  a  very  start 
ling  apparent  incongruity  should  sometimes  exist 
between  a  bachelor's  apartment  and  the  gorgeous 
ly  -  attired  gentleman  who  goes  forth  from  the 
same  to  enter  the  most  exclusive  inwardness  of 
most  exclusive  society.  A  finely  feathered  he- 
bird  has  been  known  to  take  daily  flight,  joining 
a  flock  of  very  high  fliers,  from  a  roofless  nest  of 
mud  and  straw  and  unwashed  rags. 

It  had  been  enough  for  Ki  to  know  that  the 


198  JESSEKIAH    BROWN'S    COURTSHIP 

pine  press  in  the  corner  of  his  hovel  held  in  safe 
preservation  his  silk  hat,  dress  suit,  and  the  va 
rious  delicate  appointments  of  a  gentleman's  toi 
let ;  that  a  cake  of  very  strongly  scented  sweet 
soap  of  a  marbleized  reddish  color  lay  wrapped 
in  tin-foil  beside  a  boot-shaped  bottle  of  "  hair- 
ile  "  that  for  potency  of  perfume  put  both  gourd- 
vine  and  jimsonweed  to  shame  ;  and  that  his  va 
ried  assortment  of  scarfs,  scarf-pins,  handker 
chiefs,  and  the  like  was  safe  from  wind  or  weather 
in  a  shell-covered  box  made  by  one  of  his  earliest 
sweethearts. 

Here  also  were  a  little  folding-comb  with  a  mir 
ror  within  its  handle — a  vest-pocket  convenience 
for  last  toilet  touches  at  church  doors  and  front 
gates — a  gorgeous  walking-cane,  and  cotton  um 
brella.  In  fact,  as  to  the  matter  of  toilet  furnish 
ings,  Ki  was  quite  up  to  the  requirements  of  a 
finished  society  man,  and  he  had,  besides,  what  he 
would  probably  have  called  an  "  innard  "  grace  of 
manner.  It  would  have  come  outward  and  mani 
fested  itself  in  mannerisms  if  there  had  been  any 
chance  for  it,  but,  as  he  himself  lamented,  "  How 
kin  a  feather-bed  teck  orn  manners  ?" 

Ki  was  too  hopelessly  fat  to  cultivate  anything 
more  than  the  negations,  so  to  speak,  of  manners 
polite.  His  strength  lay  rather  in  the  avoidance 
of  inelegancies  than  in  the  attempt  to  assume  im 
possible  graces. 

A  genial  amiability  is  ofttimes  a  surer  guaran 
tee  of  social  success  than  a  figure  of  artistic  pro- 


JESSEKIAH  BROWN'S  COURTSHIP  199 

portions,  and  yet  Ki  would  have  given  all  he 
owned  or  hoped  to  possess  of  personal  attractive 
ness  for  the  power  to  bend  at  the  waist  when  he 
lifted  his  stove-pipe  hat. 

We  have  said  that  during  the  period  of  his  re 
treat  he  had  improved  the  condition  of  his  home. 
Indeed,  when  two  months  had  passed,  the  freshly 
whitewashed  little  cabin  that  sat  smiling  through 
a  cool  green  garment  of  butter-bean  and  morning- 
glory  vines,  in  the  midst  of  a  riotous  mass  of  sun 
flowers,  hollyhocks,  and  zinnias,  was  in  no  way 
recognizable  as  the  recent  neglected  hovel. 

While  the  trap  to  catch  his  bird  was  out  upon 
the  levee,  Ki,  with  loving  care,  was  getting  the 
nest  in  order,  and  although  he  was  eager  at  times 
for  his  mate,  there  were  moments  when  the  tor 
tures  of  indecision  were  distinctly  sharpened  with 
a  dread  lest  her  coming  should  involve  a  life-long 
regret. 

While  he  had  chopped  down  the  mud  crawfish 
chimneys  along  his  garden  walk  and  strewed  it 
with  white  shells,  somehow  he  had  been  unable  to 
think  with  pleasure  of  any  other  girl  than  Han 
nah  Frierson,  a  willowy  yellow  maid,  tripping  up 
and  down  the  walk  ;  and  yet,  within  the  cozy 
corner  of  his  porch,  where  he  had  placed  a  bench 
just  broad  enough  for  two  among  the  vines,  the 
brown,  piquant  face  of  another  insistently  and  be- 
witchingly  met  his  eye.  She  who  seemed  nat 
urally  to  stand  on  the  little  step-ladder  to  gather 
butter-beans  was  a  third.  And  yet  another,  by  a 


200 

strange  persistency,  struck  his  fancy  as  the  dainty 
creature  who  should  occupy  the  chair  upon  the 
levee.  Her  delicate,  shapely  wrist  seemed  in  his 
imagination  just  fitted  to  lie  over  its  rustic  arm, 
and  her  slender  foot  would,  he  was  sure,  just 
about  rest  on  the  log  where  he  sat. 

He  somehow  had  a  feeling  that  maybe — he 
wasn't  quite  sure,  but  maybe — it  would  be  pleas 
ant  to  lay  his  hand  upon  her  foot  and  pat  it. 
Would  that  be  lover-like?  He  doubted  that  it 
was  exactly  the  correct  thing  to  do  ;  and  yet, 
while  he  sat  and  looked  at  the  end  of  the  log,  the 
impulse  to  reach  out  and  touch  the  imaginary 
foot  resting  upon  it  always  came  so  irresistibly 
that  he  chuckled  over  the  very  thought. 

Notwithstanding  the  fact  that  Ki  was  distinct 
ly  in  a  courting  frame  of  mind,  there  were  times 
when  he  would  in  desperation  have  retreated  from 
his  vow  and  started  out  again,  hoping  to  make  his 
choice,  had  it  not  been  for  his  dread  of  meeting 
Fat  Ann,  and  that  he  was  resolved,  with  all  the 
hitherto  dormant  decision  of  his  tardy  manhood, 
he  would  not  do — no,  not  if  he  died.  He  hated, 
despised,  abhorred  the  very  thought  of  her  with 
a  morbid  intensity  heightened  by  solitude  and 
long-suffering.  Even  yet,  when  he  recalled  the 
picture  he  and  she  must  have  made  as  they  prom 
enaded  before  the  company  arm  in  arm  for  the 
cake,  cold  chills  ran  down  his  back,  and  he  talked 
bitterly  to  himself. 

"De  idee  o'  dat  great  big  apple  -  flitter,  what 


JESSEKIAH    BROWN  S    COURTSHIP  201 

'ain't  got  no  mo'  shape  'n  a  spinnin'-turtle,  a-wad- 
dlin'  by  my  side — matchin'  fatness  wid  fatness ! 
My  Lord !  De  mo'  I  ponders  on  it,  de  mo'  mad 
der  an'  pervokeder  I  gits  !  De  idee  !  A  gal 
what  'ain't  got  no  mo'  wais'-line  'n  a — 'n  a — 'n  I 
isf" 

The  summer  was  waning.  Ki  was  now  an  ac 
knowledged  recluse.  And  though  his  little  home 
grew  prettier  and  more  attractive  ;  though  his 
wages,  untaxed  by  the  demands  of  society,  lay 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life  a  growing  account  to 
his  credit  ;  though  his  chair  sat,  clover-scented 
and  picturesque,  on  the  brow  of  the  levee  at  his 
door,  waiting  to  hold  in  its  open  arms  the  future 
mistress  of  the  manse ;  though  the  nest  grew 
daily  more  attractive  and  the  waiting  mate  with 
in  it  more  eligible,  never  a  bird  had  perched  upon 
the  limb  prepared  to  entrap  it. 

A  few  of  the  settled  married  folk  and  some  of 
the  boys  had  strolled  out,  partly  from  curiosity 
and  a  desire  for  a  friendly  chat,  but  as  Ki  was 
rather  taciturn  they  had  been  satisfied  to  consider 
this  a  last  idiosyncrasy  confirming  his  bachelor 
hood,  and  had  not  returned. 

The  girls  missed  him  in  an  impersonal  sort  of 
way  ;  but  beaux,  real  marrying  fellows,  full  to 
overflowing  of  direct  sentiment,  were  plentiful, 
and  so  were  skiffs  and  fishing-lines  and  blackberry 
patches.  They  hadn't  time  to  think  seriously  of  Ki. 

At  last  it  was  an  evening  near  the  end  of  Sep 
tember.  Ki,  dispirited  and  sad,  oppressed  with 


202 

that  worst  vacancy  of  the  heart,  a  sense  of  having 
no  one  to  care  for  him,  had  strolled  out,  following 
the  old  levee  to  the  most  distant  point  of  its  out 
ward  curve,  and  here  he  sat  down. 

He  had  seen  several  rowing  parties  start  out  in 
skiffs,  and  even  now,  though  they  were  but  float 
ing  black  lines  in  the  distance,  he  caught  occa- 
sionalty  in  a  breath  of  wind  the  sound  of  laughter 
mingled  with  the  witching  notes  of  a  harmonicon. 
He  was  desperately  lonely  and  blue. 

The  sun  was  nearly  down  when  at  last  he  rose 
wearily  to  go  in.  He  had  proceeded  some  dis 
tance  when  the  rustic  chair  came  within  range  of 
his  vision.  The  recent  sunlight  reflected  from  the 
river  into  his  eyes  embarrassed  his  sight  some 
what,  and  bright  spots  were  dancing  before  them, 
yet  in  a  flash  came  the  impression  that  there  was 
something  unusual  in  the  appearance  of  the  chair. 
The  very  idea  startled  him  so  that  some  moments 
passed  before  he  dared  confirm  the  suspicion  by  a 
second  glance,  and  he  was  so  maddened  with  a 
sort  of  stage-fright  that  he  staggered  a  little  when 
he  did  finally  look  again. 

It  was  true.  Some  one  was  comfortably  seated 
in  the  chair  beside  the  log,  taking  the  evening 
breeze.  He  could  see  the  flutter  of  a  flounce  in 
the  wind  as  he  slowly  and  falteringly  approached, 
his  heart  in  his  throat,  breathing  hard.  Sudden 
ly  he  stopped,  leaned  forward,  ducked  his  head 
down,  looked  intently  for  a  moment,  and,  falling 
like  a  log,  rolled  down  the  inside  of  the  levee. 


JESSEKIAH    BROWN  S    COURTSHIP  203 

It  was  Fat  Ann.  Let  us  hope  that  his  record 
ing  angel  took  note  of  the  poor  fellow's  anguish 
of  soul  as,  when  he  reached  the  bottom,  he  ejacu 
lated,  with  a  groan,  "  Good  Gord  !"  If  he  did, 
the  exclamation  was  surely  not  registered  as  pro 
fanity,  but  was  rather  entered  as  a  prayer  on  the 
credit  side  of  his  account. 

Ann,  conscious  only  of  unsuspicious  friendly 
feeling,  seeing  him  fall,  hurried  to  the  spot. 

"Fur  Gord  sake,  Brer  Brown,  huccome  you 
twissen  so  sudd'nt  orf  de  aidge  o'  de  levee  ?"  she 
exclaimed,  breathlessly. 

Ki  lay  still  where  he  had  fallen,  at  the  water's 
edge. 

"  Po'  Brer  Brown  done  tooken  wid  a  fit !  Wait 
tell  I  come  an'  he'p  you  up,"  she  continued,  meas 
uring  the  difficult  descent  with  her  eye. 

This  was  a  stimulant.  Ki  groaned  aloud  to 
show  that  he  still  lived.  If  she  should  come  to 
him,  he  felt  that  he  would  die  outright. 

The  girl,  misinterpreting  the  groan  as  an  in 
dication  of  serious  disaster,  hurried  to  his  aid. 
Somehow,  in  attempting  the  steep  declivity,  her 
foot  slipped. 

Whether,  sliding  like  an  irresistible  avalanche, 
she  carried  Ki  into  the  water  with  her,  or  whether 
she  rolled  clear  over  him,  and  he  afterward  fell  in 
in  his  effort  to  rescue  her,  it  is  hard  to  say.  Cer 
tain  it  is,  however,  that  when  after  some  time 
they  reappeared  arm  in  arm  over  the  brow  of  the 
levee,  both  bore  marks  of  a  recent  baptism. 


204  JESSEKIAH  BROWN'S  COUKTSHIP 

That  Ki  was  passing  through  another  baptism 
of  fire  was  evinced  by  the  expression  of  dull  de 
spair  that  had  settled  over  his  face,  as  well  as  by 
a  suspicion  of  incoherency  in  his  speech. 

Through  it  all,  however,  he  had  never  quite  for 
gotten  that  he  was  a  gentleman  and  that  Ann  was 
a  lady.  Neither  had  he  forgotten  his  oath,  nor 
that  he  was  a  Christian — and  a  Methodist. 

Now  that  it  was,  so  far  as  she  knew,  all  over, 
Ann,  overcome  with  a  sense  of  the  ludicrous, 
shook  with  suppressed  laughter.  Her  own  effort 
at  control  fortunately  kept  her  from  realizing  that 
Ki  had  several  times  distinctly  sobbed,  even  while 
he  made  such  polite  remarks  as  he  could  command 
to  the  lady  upon  his  arm. 

"  I  'clare,  Miss — ur — a — Miss  Ann,  seem  lak  I 
los'  my  ekalubium.  Dis  heah  levee  ain't  fitt'n'  fur 
no  plump  lady — ur — a — I  means  hit  ain't  ter  say 
fitt'n'  fur  nothin'  but — but  billy  goats.  I  trus'  you 
'ain't  fractioned  none  o'  yo'  dislocutioms,  Miss 
Ann." 

Ann  had  not  yet  found  her  voice.  Still  trem 
bling  somewhat  from  the  shock,  chilled  with  her 
wet  skirts,  and  a  bit  hysterical  withal,  she  shook 
so  that  when  they  reached  the  chair  Ki  felt  im 
pelled,  by  sheer  courtesy,  to  steady  her  by  laying 
his  hand  upon  her  shoulder  as  he  bade  her  be 
seated.  Then,  moving  off,  he  took  his  seat,  not 
within  the  notch  at  her  side,  but  astride  the  most 
distant  end  of  the  log. 

"  I  'clare,  Brer  Brown,"  said  his  guest,  finally. 


JESSEKIAH    BROWN'S    COURTSHIP  205 

"I  sholy  is  glad  ter  set  down  an'  wring  out  my 
frock."  And  after  a  pause  :  "Umh  !  Dis  heah 
cheer  des  fits  me,  lak  you  done  had  tooken  my 
measure  fur  it.  Was  you  studyin'  'bout  me,  Brer 
Brown,  when  you  made  it?" 

Ki,  looking  dazed,  only  blinked,  and  fortunate 
ly  she  did  not  wait  for  an  answer.  He  sat  wiping 
off  his  clothing  with  his  handkerchief,  while  great 
drops  of  perspiration  trickled  down  his  face,  and 
an  occasional  quiver  like  summer  lightning  played 
about  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

Long  after  there  was  any  need  for  it  he  con 
tinued  to  rub  his  trousers  legs  and  the  sleeve  of 
the  one  arm  that  had  been  submerged.  He  was 
trying,  with  all  the  strength  of  a  resolve  grown 
strong  by  patient  waiting,  to  bring  himself  to  ac 
cept  the  conditions  of  his  oath.  He  had  prayed 
over  this  matter.  He  had  trustingly  begged  the 
Lord  in  His  infinite  wisdom  to  send  the  right 
woman  to  him.  And  there  sat  Ann — the  answer 
to  his  prayers — Ann,  whom  all  his  manoeuvre  had 
been  planned  to  avoid. 

After  he  had  wiped  his  coat  and  she  had  wrung 
her  gown  until  both  acts  were  growing  palpably 
absurd,  and  the  silence  was  becoming  momenta 
rily  more  painful,  Ki  ventured  to  look  up  at  the 
woman  whom  he  must  ask  to  be  his  wife.  For  a 
moment  he  was  tempted  to  throw  himself  back 
ward  and  roll  into  the  outer  depths  of  the  Missis 
sippi.  The  chill  of  its  waters  was  still  upon  him, 
however,  and,  shivering  at  the  thought,  he  turned 


206  JESSEKIAH    BROWN  S    COURTSHIP 

from  it  to  glance  once  more  at  his  bride-elect.  Of 
course  she  would  accept  him.  Who  ever  doubts  the 
descent  of  a  dreaded  and  evidently  impending  evil? 

Ki's  proposal  scene  had  been  arranged  for 
years,  and  he  knew  it  all  by  heart  from  beginning 
to  end  ;  but  that  old  formula  beginning  with 
"Roses  red"  would  never  do  now.  He  had  fan 
cied  that  when  he  should  come  to  the  "Sugar  is 
sweet,  an'  so  is  you,"  the  dainty  little  miss  might 
be  a  trifle  coy,  and  he  should  have  to  insist  upon 
it.  She  might  even  protest,  "  I  ain't  no  sweeter'n 
you  is."  But  if  Ann  should  say  so  silly  a  thing 
to  him,  he  would  scream — he  felt  it. 

The  moments  were  passing.  He  had  several 
times  taken  off  his  hat  and  wiped  it,  only  to  be 
reminded  that  it  had  never  been  wet,  and  now  he 
did  so  again. 

Finally  Ann  spoke.  "Yo*  cabin  do  look 
mighty  sweet,  Brer  Brown,"  she  said.  "  Settin' 
whar  it  do,  hit  mus'  ketch  all  de  breezes  an'  be 
mighty  cool.  Ain't  it  ?" 

Ki  breathed  fiercely.  "  No,  Miss — ur — a — Miss 
Ann,"  he  replied,  swallowing  a  lump  in  his  throat. 
"Hit's  pow'ful  hot;  an'  —  an'  yit"  —  he  could 
hardly  control  his  agitation  enough  to  speak — 
"an'  yit  I's  afeerd  ter  leave  de  winders  open  o' 
nights,  'caze  de  lizards  an'  scorpions  an'  snakes  is 
awful  bad  roun'  my  cabin — an' — an'  rats  ;  deze 
heah  grea'  big  fox-rats.  Dey — dey  des  runs  roun' 
my  room  at  night  lak  squir'ls  in  de  woods  ;  an' — 
an'  skunks,  too.  Dey  comes  roun'  reg'lar,  a  whole 


JESSEKIAH    BROWN'S    COURTSHIP  207 

g 

passel  ob  'era,  an' — an' — ur — a — bats,  an' — an' — 
ur — a — squinch-owls,  an' — an' — " 

"  De  laws-a-mussy,  Brer  Brown,  you  ain't  sesso  ! 
An'  does  you  sleep  heavy  wid  all  sech  varmints 
a-swarmin'  roun'  o'  nights  ?" 

"Sleep  heavy?  Who,  me?  I— ur— a— I— " 
He  was  gaining  time.  "I  nuver  sleeps  heavy, 
Miss  Ann.  No,  ma'am,  I — I  nuver  sleeps  heavy. 
Yer  see,  mos'ly  ev'y  night  I  has  de  nightmares, 
an' — an'  sometimes  I  gits  up  in  de  middle  o'  de 
night,  an'  seem  lak  I  'magines  I  hears  robbers,  an' 
I  des  teck  a  stick  an'  whup  ev'ything  in  de  room. 
I  taken  my  bolster  one  night,  an' — an'  I  beat  it  all 
ter  pieces  'gins'  de  side  o'  de  bed  in  one  o'  deze 
heah  nightmares.  I  tell  yer,  I's — I's  a  dange'ous 
sleeper,  Miss  Ann  !" 

"  Umh  !  Look  ter  me  lak  you  oughter  have 
some  light  sleeper  ter  stay  wid  you,  Brer  Brown, 
an'  teck  kyar  you." 

Ki  swallowed  again.  "B-b-but,  yer  see,  Miss 
Ann,  I's  afeerd  I  mought  kill  'em  'fo'  dey'd  week 
up,  don't  yer  see  ?  Dat's  de  onies'  trouble.  I  des 
tecks  de  load  out'n  my  gun  'fo'  I  goes  ter  bed,  an* 
hides  all  de  knives  an'  forks — 'caze,  yer  know,  a 
pusson  could  job  a  pusson's  eyes  out  wid  a  fork — 
an'  den  I  des  lays  down  an'  goes  ter  sleep.  Dey 
does  say  how  sometime'  a  pusson  do  load  a  gun  in 
his  sleep." 

"  Whee  !  You  all  but  scares  me,  Brer  Brown. 
Don't  you  nuver  git  lonesome  by  yo'  lone  se'f, 
Brer  Brown  ?" 


208 

Here  was  a  real  opening.  His  heart  thumped 
so  that  he  heard  it.  He  could  hardly  speak. 

"  Y-y-yas,  'm.  I — I  gits — I  gits  lonesome  some 
nights — some  nights  when — when  de — de  dorgs 
comes  onder  my  cabin  an'  howl — an' — " 

"  Dat's  a  mighty  bad  sign,  Brer  Brown.  Is  dey 
cry  two  times  an'  stop  ?" 

Ki  coughed.  "N-no,  Miss  Ann.  Dat  what 
meek  me  fine  it  so  strange.  Dey  say  ef  a  dorg 
howl  two  times  an'  stop,  hit's  fur  a  man  ter  die  ; 
but — but  deze  heah  dorgs  dey  keep  a-cryin'  three 
times  an'  stop — three  times  an'  stop  ;  dat's  a  sho 
call  fur  a  'oman  ter  die.  Ef — ef  I  had  air  mam 
my — ur — a — any  'oman  pusson  stayin'  wid  me, 
I'd—I'd  look  fur  ter  lose  'er,  sho." 

"  Umh  !  Dat's  mighty  strange.  How  long  is 
dey  been  comin',  Brer  Brown  ?" 

"Des — des  deze  las'  few  nights — an'  I  done 
tried  ev'y  way  I  kin  ter  get  shet  ob  'em — but  dey 
won't  go." 

"  My  Lord !  You  done  got  me  'mos'  too 
skeer'd  ter  go  home,  Brer  Brown.  But  I  mus' 
travel ;  hit's  gitt'n'  late."  She  rose. 

"  D-don't— don't  go  yit,  Miss  Ann."  He  began 
to  gasp  again.  "  S-set  down.  I — I  des  berginnin' 
ter  talk  ter  yer  good.  I — I  was  des  a-sayin' — " 

She  sat  down  again.     Ki  mopped  his  forehead. 

"  What  was  you  sayin',  Brer  Brown  ?  I  'clare, 
seem  lak  I  kin  see  dorgs'  shadders  runnin'  'long 
de  levee.  I  mus'  be  gitt'n'  home.  You  done  got 
me  rattled." 


JESSEKIAH  BROWN'S  COURTSHIP  209 

"  I  des  say — I  say,  don't  hurry  yo'se'f — I  des — 
I  des  a-sayin' — " 

He  mopped  his  forehead  again,  and  his  ears, 
and  the  back  of  his  neck. 

"I  was  des  a-sayin',  Miss  Ann,  it's — it's  awful 
hot  heah  ter-night — des  lis'n  at  me,  *  awful  hot !' 
— I  'ain't  got  no  manners.  Hit's  pretty  toler'ble 
warm  heah,  Miss  Ann,  ain't  it?  I — I  des  a-pus- 
firin'  lak  rain." 

"Hit's  cool  an'  winny  ter  me,  Brer  Brown. 
Look  how  de  win'  blowin'  my  hat  strings.  I 
'dare  I  mus'  go.  Hit's  gitt'n'  plumb  dark." 

"B-b-but  I  gwine  tell  yer,  Miss  Ann,  dat  of 
co'se  I — I  does  feel  lonesome  heah  some  nights— 
an'  I — ur — a — I  feels — " 

If  he  could  only  bring  in  the  "  Roses  red  "  and 
be  done  with  it ! 

"An' — of  co'se — sometimes  I  craves  fur  com — 
fur  comp'ny." 

"I  knows  how  you  feels,  Brer  Brown,  dat  I 
does  !  I  done  been  lonesome  myse'f,  an'  I  knows 
de  mizry  !  I  often  'lowed  I'd  come  over  heah  an' 
see  yo'  fancified  cheer,  what  I  done  heerd  de  chil- 
len  all  talkin'  'bout,  an'  talk  wid  you,  but  I  'ain't 
had  de  cour'ge  ter  do  so,  tell  dis  evenin'  I  was 
a-passin'  by,  an'  I  seen  Betty  Taylor  a-settin'  heah 
lak  a  queen,  a-fannin'  herse'f — " 

"  Wh  -  wh  -  wh  -  what  —  what  you  say,  Miss 
Ann?" 

"I  say,  of  co'se,  when  I  seen  Betty  Taylor 
a-settin'  heah  in  yo'  high-back  cheer,  big  as  life — 
14 


210  JESSEKIAH    BROWN'S    COURTSHIP 

howsomever  she  ain't  no  thicker'n  a  stick  o'  sugar 
cane — I  'lowed  I  could  come  too." 

Ki  never  knew  how  he  kept  from  falling  at  this 
juncture. 

"  Wh-when — when  is  you  see  Miss — Miss  Betty 
heah,  Miss — ur — a — Miss  Ann  ?" 

"  She  was  heah  when  I  come — when  you  was 
settin'  orn  de  aidge  o'  de  levee.  When  she  got 
up,  I  sot  down,  an'  I  had  des  sca'cely  tooken  my 
seat  when  you  was  tooken  wid — wid  a  some'h'n' 
Another  an'  done  so  cuyus.  What  was  you  sayin', 
Brer  Brown,  'bout  bein'  so  lonesome  ?" 
.  Ki  was  grinning  so  he  could  hardly  speak. 
"  Who,  me  ?  I  was  des  a-sayin'— I  'clare,  Miss 
Ann,  what  was  I  sayin'  ?" 

"You  sayin'  some'h'n'  'bout  lonesomeness — " 
"  Is  I  ?    I  'clare  I  f orgits.    Who-who-who  I  say 
was  lonesome  ?" 

"You,  yo'se'f.  You  say  sometimes  you  feels 
lak—  You  ain't  say  what  you  feels  lak." 

"  I— I  'clare,  Miss  Ann  !  Hit's  so  hot— ur — a — 
so  col' — ur — a — I  means  ter  say  hit's  so  warm  up 
heah  ter-night—  Look  lak  I  done  los'  de  thread 
o'  my  speech,  Miss  Ann — I—"  And  he  actually 
giggled  outright. 

Ann  was  seized  with  a  sudden  panic.  She  felt 
sure  that  a  spell  of  some  dreadful  kind  was  com 
ing  upon  him. 

She  was  afraid  to  stay,  and  yet  she  feared  that 
if  she  started  to  go  he  might  seize  her,  and  beat 
her  as  he  had  beaten  the  things  in  the  nightmare. 


JESSEKIAH    BROWN'S    COURTSHIP  211 

She  was  sure  he  would  presently  do  something 
sudden.  If  he  would  only  tumble  down  the  levee 
again,  she  would  be  relieved,  for  then  she  could 
run  and  call  for  help. 

It  was  quite  dark  now,  and  growing  really 
chill. 

Suddenly  Ki  sneezed.  Starting  as  if  she  were 
shot,  poor  Ann  sprang  with  surprising  agility 
from  her  chair,  and,  facing  round,  started  in  a 
steady  trot  toward  the  quarters. 

It  seems  too  much  that  she  should  have  rolled 
off  the  edge  of  the  levee  a  second  time,  and  really 
it  would  not  have  happened  but  for  the  darkness 
and  the  fright,  which  blinded  her  utterly. 

Even  after  she  realized  that  Ki  was  not  madly 
pursuing  her,  she  had  fled  in  unabated  terror  from 
an  imaginary  pack  of  howling  dogs,  rats,  and  rep 
tiles,  fearing  at  each  step  the  flapping  into  her 
face  of  the  wings  of  owl  or  bat. 

Her  second  tumble  was  perhaps  a  happy  acci 
dent,  for  while  for  a  moment  it  was  as  if  the  end 
of  all  things  had  come,  she  soon  rallied,  unhurt, 
to  find  herself  safely  in  the  road  leading  to  her 
own  door. 

When  Ki  realized  that  he  was  alone,  he  threw 
himself  on  the  grass  again,  and  laughed  until  he 
cried. 

It  was  perhaps  two  hours  later,  when,  gorgeous 
ly  attired  in  his  dress  suit,  a  zinnia  and  a  sprig  of 
mint  in  his  button-hole,  equally  polished  as  to 


212  JESSEKIAH  BROWN'S  COURTSHIP 

boots  and  beaver,  and  redolent  of  sundry  perfumes 
of  the  toilet,  he  emerged  from  his  embowered  cot 
tage,  and  started,  clearing  his  throat  and  giggling 
ever  and  anon  as  he  went,  to  the  cabin  where  lived, 
with  her  mother,  the  umber  lass  Betty  Taylor. 
Never  once  did  his  courage  fail  him,  never  did  he 
falter,  never  look  back.  The  string  of  Cupid's 
bow  had  been  drawn  nearly  to  the  point  of  snap 
ping,  but  now  that  it  had  sprung,  the  arrow  sped 
without  a  waver  straight  to  the  mark.  Looking 
neither  to  right  nor  left,  nor  behind  him,  nor  yet 
within,  fluttering  and  giggling  only  as  the  arrow 
whizzes  from  the  very  speed  and  directness  of  its 
flight,  Ki  proceeded  to  make  his  first  unequivocal 
declaration  of  love. 

There  have  been  more  graceful  suitors  perhaps 
than  our  poor  hero.  Others  there  have  been  more 
fluent  of  thought,  more  gifted  in  speech,  but  it  is 
doubtful  whether  upon  the  ear  of  woman  ever  fell 
a  more  ardent  avowal  than  that  which  greeted 
the  surprised  but  not  offended  ear  of  the  nut- 
brown  mayde  with  the  slender  slender  waist,  who 
was  seen  in  the  tender  moonlight  that  night  to 
walk  arm  in  arm  with  Ki  up  the  levee  and  take 
her  seat  by  his  side  in  the  rustic  chair.  And  Ki 
sat  in  the  crotch  of  the  log. 

And  when  he  saw  that  her  slim  foot  rested  just 
where  he  fancied  it  would  on  the  end  of  the  branch 
beside  him,  he  clasped  his  hands  tightly  behind 
his  head  until  he  could  steady  himself. 

The  announcement  of  the  engagement  created 


JESSEKIAH  BROWN'S  COURTSHIP  213 

a  tremendous  sensation  on  the  plantation.  The 
first  one  to  whom  Ki  personally  confided  it  was 
Ami.  Somehow  since  his  happiness  his  heart  had 
gone  out  to  her  to  a  degree  that  was  distinctly 
brotherly. 

"  I  wanted  ter  be  de  f us  one  ter  tell  yer,  Miss 
Ann,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  mellow  with  friendly 
feeling,  as  they  returned  from  the  field  together, 
"  'caze  you  an'  me's  been  des,  as  yer  mought  say, 
lak  brother  an'  sister  together  fur  so  long — " 

Ann  laughed.  "  Dat's  des  de  way  I  felt,  Brer 
Brown,  an'  dat's  huccome  I  went  up  an'  sot  in  yo' 
cheer  las'  week  ter  tell  you  'bout  I  gwine  marry, 
but  look  lak  you  sort  o'  sca'ed  me  orf." 

"  How  you  say  dat,  Miss  Ann  ?  You  gwine 
marry  !  Who  —  who  you  'low  ter  marry,  Miss 
Ann?" 

"  Is  you  tooken  notice  ter  dat  little  slim  yaller 
musicianer  what  play  de  bones  at  de  cake-walk? 
He  come  f'om  de  Teche.  He  an'  me  been  keepin' 
comp'ny  ever  sence." 

"  What !     Hursh  !     You  don't  say  !" 

"Yas,  I  does  say.  You  been  stayin' home  so 
close-t,  fixin'  up  fur  Betty,  you  'ain't  kep'  up  wid  de 
news.  But  look  heah,  Brer  Brown  " — she  low 
ered  her  voice — "  co'se  I  knows  you's  a  perf essin' 
man,  an'  you  gwine  do  what's  right,  but— but  is 
you  tol'  Betty  'bout — 'bout  dem  nightmares  ?" 

Ki  hesitated,  and  there  was  a  twinkle  in  his  eye 
when  he  said  :  "  I  nuver  has  'em  on'y  in  de  sum 
mer,  Miss  Ann,  an'  we  don't  'low  ter  marry  tell 


214 

nex'  month ;  but  tell  de  trufe,  I  'ain't  kep'  nothin1 
back  f'om  Miss  Betty.  But  look  heah!  Fs  mo' 
tooken  up  wid  yo'  marryin'  'n  I  is  wid  me  an'  Miss 
Betty's.  An'  you  say  ever  sence  de  cake-walk?" 

"  Yas,  sir.  He  say  when  he  seed  me  step  out  so 
mannerly  an'  taken  yo'  arm —  But  co'se  he  des 
run  orn  ter  me  dat-a-way." 

"Well  done!  An'  Miss  Betty  say  dat  same 
word  ter  me." 

Both  laughed. 

"  Is  she  ?  But  Betty  allus  is  liked  de  fat  style; 
but  fur  me,  gi'  me  de  slim  style !  Hones',  Brer 
Brown,  I'd  o'  give  all  I  owned  de  night  o'  dat 
cake-walk  ef  you  er  me,  one,  had  o'  been  slim.  I 
des  dashed  out  reckless  ter  hide  my  feelin's.  Ef 
air  one  of  us  had  o'  moped  ur  stepped  heavy,  dey'd 
o'  had  de  laugh  on  us !" 

"  Dat's  so  ;  an'  look  lak  de  laugh  on  our  side 
now.  Well,  Miss  Ann,  I  wushes  you  joy,  an'  I  shek 
yo'  han'." 

"An'  I  shek  yo'  han',  Brer  Brown." 


CRAZY  ABE 


CEAZY  ABE 

THE  suggestions  of  the  place,  the  hour  and 
the  season,  were  all  of  repose — the  place,  the 
broad,  breezy  gallery  of  an  old  plantation  house ; 
the  hour,  after  breakfast ;  season,  the  late  summer. 

The  vine -clad  gallery,  itself  an  invitation  to 
shade  and  rest,  held  inviting  accommodations 
in  the  way  of  willow  chairs  and  hammocks,  all 
languidly  swaying  with  an  air  of  nonchalant  hos 
pitality. 

The  after-breakfast  hour,  usually  a  contempla 
tive  one  from  which  one  surveys  the  day's  duties, 
was  here,  from  the  very  promise  of  an  idle  day 
which  the  prospective  view  afforded,  especially 
an  hour  of  rest. 

Gastronomically  speaking,  it  was  the  interval 
between  waffles  and  watermelon,  while  the  breeze, 
with  the  fragrant  coolness  of  the  night  still  in  it, 
was  shaking  the  lace  curtains  all  over  the  house, 
chasing  out  the  breakfast  odors,  before  the  little 
darky  in  homespun  made  her  first  tour  with  cold 
water  from  the  spring  which  she  served  from  her 
brass-bound  bucket,  with  dipper  and  dipping  cour 
tesy. 

How  sweet  everything  was  I 


218  CKAZY   ABE 

There  was  nothing  to  dissipate  the  idea  of  rest. 
Even  the  sewing-machine  in  the  corner  of  the  hall 
hid  its  suggestion  of  labor  beneath  its  cover,  and 
became  a  holder  of  palmetto  fans,  recklessly  lend 
ing  its  treadle  in  a  creaking  song  to  any  child  who 
cared  for  the  holiday  measure. 

It  was  the  waiting  time  on  the  plantation,  the 
growing  season,  and,  of  all  nature's  activities, 
what  is  so  restful  as  the  unconscious  energy  of 
growth  ? 

"Behold  the  lilies,  how  they  grow!"  So  the 
cotton-fields  spreading  out  before  me  grew.  They 
toiled  not,  neither  did  they  spin,  but  wore  an  as 
pect  of  serene  repose,  in  restful  ignorance  of  the 
vigor  that  was  transforming  their  juices  into  the 
bone  and  sinew  of  the  natural  body  of  a  giant 
king  of  commerce. 

Across  the  fields,  the  negroes  lounged  about  the 
doors  of  their  cabins  or  rolled  on  the  grass,  smok 
ing,  gossipping,  sunning  themselves — yielding  to 
the  drowsy  influences  of  the  hour  and  the  season. 

Everything  in  view  was  removed  from  the  in 
tense.  Even  the  gleaming  plaids  of  the  blacks,  in 
whose  costumes  we  look  always  for  a  pronounced 
bit  of  color,  were  subdued  into  soft  tints  by  near 
ly  a  year  of  weather  and  wear. 

The  roses  blooming  along  the  walk  to  the  gate 
were  the  listless,  softly-tinted,  faintly-perfumed 
teas ;  and  from  the  vine  about  the  gallery  hung 
scattering  sweet  honeysuckles,  bending  and  sway 
ing —  holding  no  opinion  against  a  breeze  too 


CRAZY   ABE  219 

gentle  to  compel  acquiescence,  but  which  played 
lazily  at  will  with  the  ever-assenting  crepe-myrtle 
blooms,  the  most  frivolous  little  gigglers  that  ever 
compromised  the  dignity  of  a  stately  tree. 

There  was  surely  nothing  that  offended  me  in 
this  first  view  of  the  old  plantation. 

I  had  come  here  to  rest,  and  I  felt  sure  I  had 
come  to  the  right  place. 

The  overseer's  family,  who  occupied  the  house, 
I  soon  found  to  be  quiet,  uninteresting,  and,  fort 
unately,  unobtrusive  people,  who  contented  them 
selves  with  ministering  to  my  material  comfort, 
wisely  ignoring  the  question  of  my  further  enter 
tainment. 

This  gave  me  just  the  freedom  which  I  craved, 
and,  in  a  big  square  room,  with  a  huge  dormer- 
window  looking  out  upon  the  roof,  I  soon  found 
the  most  delightful  of  summer  retreats  where,  safe 
from  intrusion,  I  could  read,  or  think,  or  dream, 
undisturbed  by  the  world,  the  press,  or  the  devil. 

As  I  am  a  newspaper  man,  these  terms  will  be 
recognized  as  designating  the  fiends  who  pursue 
the  busy  man  of  my  profession. 

Although  this  old  place  had  belonged  to  my 
grandfather,  it  had  passed  out  of  the  family,  ex 
cepting  the  small  interest  which  I  still  held,  many 
years  ago ;  and  so  I  congratulated  myself  that 
there  was  probably  no  person  living  there  now 
who  would  feel  any  special  interest  in  my  grand 
father's  grandson. 

To  have  discovered  even  a  devoted  old  slave 


220  CKAZY    ABB 

who  would  entertain  me  with  reminiscences  of 
my  revered  grandparents,  would  have  been  ob 
jectionable  as  an  intrusion  upon  my  rest. 

It  pleased  me  better  to  lounge  upon  my  grand 
father's  old,  heavy  mahogany  bed — to  count  the 
very  blue,  very  double,  and  very  regular  roses  that 
bordered  its  paper  tester,  and  to  wonder  if  he 
never  wished  the  roses  were  red. 

Was  he  satisfied  with  the  appointments  of  this 
apartment,  artistically  considered  ?  Was  he  of 
the  same  sturdy  sort  as  the  old  four-posted,  un 
wieldy  bed?  I  rather  fancied  the  idea  that  he 
was,  and  then  it  pleased  me  to  observe  that  the 
bed  was  solid  and  not  veneered,  as  even  good  old 
things  sometimes  are. 

These  were  restful  wonderings — restful  because 
there  was  no  danger  of  their  being  confronted 
with  answers. 

I  did,  indeed,  seem  sometimes  almost  to  read  a 
solution  of  my  queries  in  a  certain  stern  look  which 
I  perceived  in  the  eyes  of  an  old,  faded  portrait 
of  my  grandfather,  which  hung  over  the  mantel 
piece,  but  I  soon  discovered  that  this  glance  of 
severity  was  perceptible  only  from  this  one  point 
of  view.  The  light  from  the  dormer-window,  fall 
ing  upon  my  grandfather's  face,  made  him  frown 
upon  me  whenever,  during  the  day,  I  lounged  upon 
his  bed ;  but  the  same  eyes  beamed  with  mild  ap 
proval  when,  in  the  opposite  corner  of  the  room, 
I  amused  myself  by  taking  down  from  a  lofty  old 
bookcase  the  cobwebbed  remains  of  his  ancient 
library. 


CKAZY   ABE  221 

Thus  encouraged,  I  found  myself  frequently 
pouring  over  these  musty  old  volumes. 

It  was  when  thus  engaged  that  the  thought 
came  to  me  that  possibly,  in  the  perusal  of  these 
works,  I  might  form  some  estimate  of  the  mental 
status  of  my  grandfather ;  but,  somehow,  I  did  not 
find  the  old  volumes  deeply  interesting. 

As  relics,  I  revered  them  ;  and  I  was  pleased  to 
realize  that,  being  bound  in  calf,  they  were  sub 
stantial,  like  my  grandfather's  bed,  and,  I  was 
assured,  like  himself ;  but  when  I  opened  one  of 
them,  and  read  on  its  title-page  " History  of 
Chronic  Phlegmasiae,"  I  felt  that  it  would  be  te 
dious. 

I  was  glad  to  reflect,  however,  that  my  grand 
father,  who  was  not  a  physician,  must  have  been 
a  man  of  considerable  intelligence  to  have  cared 
for  this  book. 

Perhaps  he  studied  medicine,  and  treated  his 
own  slaves.  If  so,  I  wondered  if  he  ever  gave 
them  bread  pills ;  but  one  look  at  his  honest  face 
satisfied  me  on  this  point. 

He  was  not  a  man  of  shams. 

I  wondered,  then,  if  his  negroes  had  been  sub 
ject  to  "  phlegmasise,"  and  did  he  treat  it  success 
fully? 

All  of  these,  it  will  be  perceived,  were  surface 
reflections,  so  far  as  the  book  was  concerned. 

There  were  a  few  Latin  books  in  the  collection. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  my  grandfather  smiled 
upon  me  with  something  like  conscious  pride  as  I 


222  CRAZY   ABE 

glanced  from  the  page  of  "  Cicero  Delphini "  to 
his  face. 

The  bond  of  sympathy  between  us  here  was 
again  superficial,  however.  It  lay  merely  in  my 
appreciation  of  his  appreciation  of  Cicero. 

Most  of  our  middle-aged  men  of  to-day  spent 
their  college  years  in  the  army.  I  fought  under 
Lee.  A  man  can't  have  everything.  I  am  glad, 
however,  since  my  grandfather  died  before  Lee's 
day,  that  he  knew  Latin. 

I  finally  took  down  a  well-worn  volume. 

Here,  I  said,  is  evidently  an  intimate  friend  of 
my  grandfather. 

I  hoped,  while  I  brushed  the  accumulation  of 
dust  from  its  cover,  that  this  friend  might  not  also 
introduce  himself  to  me  in  an  unknown  tongue, 
and  so  I  was  quite  happy  when  I  perceived  it  to 
be  Fielding's  "  History  of  a  Foundling." 

I  had  heard  much  of  Fielding's  pure  English, 
and  so  I  proceeded  with  delight  to  cultivate  my 
grandfather's  friend  on  this  high  ground  of  liter 
ary  excellence. 

I  am  both  proud  and  sorry  to  say  that  I  did  not 
like  this  book,  and  as  I  glanced  frequently  from 
its  pages  to  my  grandfather's  face,  I  found  my 
self  wondering  if  he  could  have  sifted  this  Eng 
lish  of  all  sense  and  taken  it  only  as  English. 

I  confess  I  found  it  difficult  to  do  so,  and  as  I 
progressed  in  my  reading,  my  grandfather's  ap 
proving  smile  grew  irritating  to  me,  and  so,  that 
I  might  retain  my  reverence  for  him  while  I  fa- 


CRAZY   ABE  223 

miliarized  myself  with  this  classic,  I  crossed  the 
room,  and,  throwing  myself  across  the  bed,  fin 
ished  the  book  beneath  his  frown  of  condemna 
tion,  which,  of  course,  I  appropriated  to  the  ob 
jectionable  sub -stratum,  which  lay  ill -concealed 
beneath  a  luxuriant  but  transparent  growth  of 
choice  words. 

My  room  was  never  lonely.  When  I  grew  tired 
of  the  library,  or  of  the  grandparental  eye,  or  of 
a  certain  enormous  hair  sofa,  with  neck-breaking 
bolsters  fitting  into  its  ends,  I  drew  my  chair  into 
the  cozy  little  alcove  at  my  dormer-window  and 
dreamily  surveyed  the  landscape. 

There  was  an  insinuating  young  lizard  that 
came  every  day  to  my  window,  and  as  he  nimbly 
sprang  from  the  wisteria  vine  that  hung  about 
the  sill  to  the  brown  shingles  of  the  roof,  I  was 
amused  to  see  him  change  his  color  to  suit  his 
support — or,  his  constituency  so  to  speak — and  so 
I  often  fell  into  reflections  on  politics  and  various 
things. 

The  ways  of  a  lizard  have  many  counterparts 
in  every-day  life. 

The  scene  from  my  dormer-window  was  exten 
sive,  commanding  a  pretty  view  of  spreading 
fields  in  front,  while  to  the  right  extended  corn 
fields,  orchard,  and  vegetable  garden— the  imme 
diate  appointments  of  the  homestead. 

It  was  from  this  vantage-ground  of  vision  that 
I  first  became  interested  in  Uncle  Abe. 

Looking  in  the  direction  of  the  cornfields,  my 


224  CRAZY    ABE 

eye  naturally  fell  upon  his  lonely  figure,  as  he  sat 
from  early  morning  until  night  on  his  narrow, 
vine-clad  cabin  porch. 

The  fact  that  he  was  commonly  known  on  the 
place  as  "  Crazy  Abe,"  and  was  evidently  a  help 
less  paralytic,  served  to  label  him  as  an  uncon 
scious,  semi-animate  object,  just  valuable,  in  the 
pretty  sketch  which  my  window  framed,  as  a  bit 
of  local  color. 

Knowing  that  he  was  the  last  one  of  my  grand 
father's  old  slaves,  I  regarded  him  pictorially  as 
a  forlorn  and  expressive  tail-piece  to  the  last  chap 
ter  of  the  old  regime. 

Some  day  he  would  not  be  there,  and  the  book 
would  be  closed. 

This  invested  him  with  a  sort  of  pathos  apart 
from  his  personality. 

As  I  regarded  him  from  my  window  day  after 
day,  I  found  myself  desiring  the  thing  which  I 
had  dreaded.  I  wished  that  he  might  recognize 
me.  It  would  have  been  pleasant  to  hear  him 
say :  "  Your  grandfather  used  to  do  thus  or  so," 
or  "  your  grandmother  was  gentle,  or  haugh 
ty,  or  merry."  I  sometimes  contemplated  visit 
ing  the  old  man,  and  knocking  at  the  door  of 
his  memory,  but  the  indications  were  not  in 
viting. 

The  old  woman  who  tended  him  pronounced 
him  "clair  'stracted,"  and  assured  me  that  he 
would  "a  heap  'd-  ruther  talk  ter  varmints  'n  ter 
argify  wid  humans."  And  so,  in  my  morning 


CRAZY    ABE  225 

walks,  I  found  myself  instinctively  avoiding  his 
cabin. 

Often,  as  I  sat  inside  my  window,  I  saw  him 
talking,  apparently  to  himself,  and  his  merry 
laughter  floated  up  to  me  more  than  once. 

It  was  to  me  like  the  last  fitful  flicker  of  an 
expiring  candle. 

I  found  myself  growing  somewhat  sentimental 
over  the  old  fellow,  and  had  already  resolved  that 
I  would  visit  him  and  try  the  effect  of  an  intro 
duction,  when  one  morning  I  was  unexpectedly 
called  to  his  side  by  discovering  him  to  be  in 
great  distress. 

Looking  down,  I  perceived  that  he  was  weep 
ing  violently,  while  a  negro  man,  rapidly  cutting 
the  weeds  with  a  scythe,  was  approaching  quite 
near  the  little  cabin. 

It  was  curiosity,  perhaps,  as  much  as  sympathy, 
which  led  me  in  haste  to  the  scene. 

As  I  neared  the  porch,  the  overseer  stepped 
forward  and  explained  that  "  nothing  was  the 
matter." 

"  I  have  ordered  these  vines  and  weeds  cut 
away  from  the  old  fellow's  porch,  and  he's  mak 
ing  a  fuss  about  it ;  that  is  all,"  he  said. 

I  glanced  at  the  trembling,  weeping  figure  in 
the  corner  of  the  little  gallery. 

It  was  the  impersonation  of  weakness  and  dis 
tress. 

"  Why  do  you  insist  on  cutting  the  weeds  ?"  I 
asked. 

15 


226  CRAZY    ABE 

"Why  shouldn't  I?"  was  the  answer.  "The 
fact  is,  I  have  humored  the  old  creature  in  this 
nonsense  until  he  thinks  he  can  have  everything 
his  own  way." 

"  Humor  him  once  more,  won't  you  ?"  I  asked. 
"It  is  a  negative  sort  of  indulgence,  to  say  the 
least  of  it,  and,  from  his  appearance,  I  hardly 
think  he  will  trouble  any  one  long." 

I  gained  my  point. 

"  How  long  has  the  old  man  been  helpless  ?"  I 
asked,  as  we  walked  away. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said,  "they  say  he  was 
taken  suddenly  while  ploughing,  and  that  he  had 
been  one  of  the  best  hands  on  the  place.  He  was 
as  you  see  him  when  I  came  here  four  years 
ago." 

"  Paralysis,  is  it  ?" 

"Paralysis.  You'll  find  a  few  like  him  on  al 
most  all  the  plantations.  We  always  look  after 
'em,  when  they  peg  out." 

On  the  morning  after  this,  I  was  sitting  in  my 
sanctum,  when  a  little  negro  girl  came  to  my 
door,  and  said,  timidly  : 

"  Crazy  Abe  say  how  he  crave  ter  see  yer,  ef 
'tain't  no  trouble  ;  ef  yer  please,  sir." 

" '  Crazy  Abe,'  did  you  say  ?" 

"  Yassir.  He  say,  ef  'tain't  no  trouble ;  ef  yer 
please,  sir,"  she  repeated. 

"  Pll  be  there,  directly,"  I  said  ;  and,  curious  to 
know  the  meaning  of  my  invitation,  I  hurried 
down  forthwith. 


CBAZY    ABE  227 

I  shall  never  forget  the  picture  that  greeted 
me  as  I  approached  the  old  man. 

Laughing  nervously,  while  big  tears  rolled 
down  his  cheeks,  he  extended  both  his  trembling 
hands  toward  me. 

It  was  a  moment  before  he  could  command  his 
voice. 

"An'  dis  is  Marse  Torm's  chile!"  he  began, 
finally.  "  Did  I  ever  'spec'  ter  see  de  day  !  Bless 
Gord  fur  de  sight !  Set  down,  honey,  set  down !" 

Mute  with  surprise,  I  drew  a  chair  from  his 
room  and  obeyed. 

Leaning  forward,  the  old  man  surveyed  me  crit 
ically. 

"  De  name  an'  de  voice  an'  de  likeness  !"  he 
said,  continuing  his  inspection.  "  Look  like  my 
yo'ng  marster  done  come  back  f'om  de  sperit  Ian' 
an'  stan'  'fo'  me  ag'in  !" 

"  And  so  you  think  I  look  like  my  father  ?"  I 
asked. 

"  'Tain't  lookin'  like  'im,  Marse  Torm.  Seem  like 
yer  is  Vsse'//  Even  ter  de  name  !  Look  like 
my  heart  was  stirred  ev'y  time  I  seed  yer  cross 
de  yard;  but  I  'ain't  seed  yer  close  twell  now,  an' 
when  I  heerd  yer  voice  istiddy,  look  like  all  my 
white  people  riz  up  like  ghos'es  an'  pass  'fo'  my 
eyes  !  All  night  long  I  been  a-studyin'  over  de 
soun'  o'  de  voice,  an'  'ain't  place  it,  and  dis  mawnin' 
I  ax  Mr.  Smiff  who  you  is,  an'  when  he  say  yer 
name,  I  knowed  yer  was  Marse  Term's  baby,  an' 
I  sont  fur  yer. 


228  CRAZY    ABB 

"I  knowed  yer'd  come  when  I  sont  fur  yer !  I 
knowed  yer'd  come  !" 

He  here  asked  me  a  few  questions  about  my 
family,  which  were  soon  answered. 

I  was  mystified  beyond  expression.  His  mind 
seemed  perfectly  clear,  and  his  memory  was  true 
and  strong. 

"  I  driv  yer  pa  an'  de  bride  down  ter  Camden 
in  de  ole  ca'yage  de  day  dee  ma'yed.  How  it 
comes  back  ter  me,  a-lookin'  in  yer  face,  Marse 
Torm  !  Yer  see,  in  de  'vision  o'  de  prop'ty,  I  fell 
ter  yer  oncle  Edwin,  an'  I  grieved,  'caze  I  wanted 
ter  go  wid  yer  pa,  'caze  I  set  de  heapes'  sto'  by 
him,  an'  dee  lemme  drive  de  ca'yage  ter  sort  o' 
cornsolate  me,  'caze  I  warn't  a-gwine  'long  wid  'im. 
Yer  see  dem  days  we  had  ter  trabble  a  day  an'  a 
night  ter  git  ter  Camden,  an'  de  big  ca'yage  goin' 
froo  de  woods  looked  like  a  cha'yot  wid  de  big 
lights  on  de  sides,  an'  heah  berhindt  come  'long 
de  waggin-load  o'  niggers  dat  was  a-gwine  wid 
Marse  Torm,  an'  berhindt  dat  ag'in  de  waggin-load 
o'  trunks. 

"  Seem  like  all  de  lightnin'-bugs  in  de  woods 
come  out  dat  night  an'  swarm  roun'  us,  ter  glorify 
de  percessiom  wid  light.  Look  like  we  was  trav- 
ellin'  'mongs'  de  stars,  an'  I  claimed  dat  de  bride 
an'  de  groom  was  de  sun  an'  de  moon. 

"  I  tell  yer,  dat  was  a  glorious  night.  Marse 
Torm  call-t  back  ter  de  niggers  in  de  waggin  dat 
dee  could  sing  ef  dee  want  ter,  an'  I  tell  yer  dee 
made  dem  ole  woods  ring  !  I  b'lieve  dem  light- 


CRAZY    ABE  229 

nin'-bugs  come  out  ter  heah  de  music — dee  say 
varmints  got  a  yeah  fur  chunes— an'  I  know,  when 
I  f  us'  sot  heah  on  dis  po'ch,  dey  was  a  little  liz 
ard  what  M  come  out  'n  meander  roun'  me  quick's 
I'd  whistle." 

I  regarded  the  old  man  with  in  creasing  wonder. 
Was  this  "  Crazy  Abe,"  the  old  creature  whom  I 
saw  laughing  at  the  winds  and  talking  to  himself 
every  day?  I  remembered  his  distress  of  the 
evening  before,  and  resolved  to  touch  upon  the 
subject  which  occasioned  it,  though  I  approached 
it  with  caution. 

"  I  see  you  have  a  nice  shady  place  here,  Uncle 
Abe,  but  isn't  it  too  close  for  you  ?"  I  asked,  by 
way  of  introduction,  as  I  glanced  at  the  heavy 
bamboo  vine  that  formed  a  thick  bower  about 
him,  while  around  the  gallery  grew  a  dense  bed 
of  weeds,  conspicuous  among  them  the  wild  sun 
flower  and  bitter-weed. 

A  change  seemed  to  pass  over  the  old  man's 
face  as  he  answered  : 

"Dee's  all  I  got  lef,  Marse  Torm  !" 

I  felt  sure  I  had  touched  his  weak  point.  It 
was  a  mistake.  His  insanity  was  in  some  way 
connected  with  the  weeds. 

While  I  was  searching  for  a  diverting  remark, 
he  turned  his  feeble  eyes  upon  me  and  said  : 

"  Marse  Torm,  kin  I  talk  ter  you  ?" 

"Why,  certainly,  say  anything  you  choose  to 
me." 

"  I  nuver  talks  ter  nobody,  but  'cep' — but  'cep' — 


230  CRAZY    ABB 

I'll  have  ter  'splain  it  out  ter  yer,  Marse  Torm. 
Yer  know  dee  calls  me  Crazy  Abe,  an'  I  'ain't 
blame  'em. 

"  When  a  ole  'cripit  crittur  like  me  commence 
ter  teck  on  ter  'isse'f,  hit's  'bleege  ter  look  dat-a- 
way,  but  I's  pass  a  keerin'  fur  de  way  I  looks, 
Marse  Torm. 

"  I's  de  same  as  gone  f 'om  de  worl',  an'  I  done 
set  my  face  todes  de  far  shore,  but  I  gwine  tell 
yer  'bout  de  way  I  bides  my  time. 

"  Yer  see,  Marse  Torm,  I  been  a-settin'  out  on 
dis  po'ch,  dis  is  five  summers,  sence  de  mizry 
stricken  me  in  de  laigs  an'  I  kyant  walk,  an'  de 
f  us'  summer  I  sot  heah,  de  sperit  warn't  squenched 
in  me  good. 

"  Seem  like  I  wanted  ter  git  up  an*  go ;  an'  den 
I  couldn't,  an'  den  I  pass  froo  a  long,  dark  day  o* 
lonesomeness.  Seem  like  I  longed  fur  folks  ter 
come  an'  see  me  an'  talk  wid  me,  an'  sometimes 
dee'd  come,  but  mo*  times  dee  'ain't  come. 

"  Yer  know  folks  is  got  plenny  ter  do  'dout 
foolin'  wid  ole  'cripit  folks  like  me.  An'  den, 
when  nobody  'ain't  come,  an'  de  days  come  an'  go 
so  slow,  I  couldn't  do  nut'n  but  ponder  on  de  ole 
times  ;  an'  whilst  I  was  lonesome  like  an'  sorrow 
ful,  one  day  one  o'  dese  heah  little  hummin'  birds 
come  a-buzzin'  froo  de  vines — purty  an'  little  an' 
shinin'.  I  d'  know  how  'twas,  Marse  Torm,  but 
all  on  a  suddint  hit  'minded  me  ob  a  little  yaller 
wife  I  had,  when  I  warn't  no  mo'n,  yer  mought 
say,  a  boy. 


CRAZY   ABE  231 

"  Hit  was  so  peart  an'  little,  an*  nuver  stay 
in  one  place,  an'  seem  like  hit  warn't  made  fur 
no  cage. 

"Well,  hit  sot  me  ter  noticin',  an'  I'd  watch 
fur  it  ter  come  back,  an'  I  call-t  it  Silvy,  ter 
myse'f. 

"  Dat  was  Silvy's  name,  an'  de  mo'  I  studied  it, 
de  mo'  seem  like  hit  favored  Silvy. 

"  I  nuver  will  forgit  de  day  ole  boss  bought 
Silvy  an'  brung  'er  home.  Dey  warn't  a  yo'ng 
buck  on  de  place  what  had  any  sense  lef,  quick  's 
he  looked  at  'er,  an' — I  d'  know  huccome — but 
some  way — womens  is  notionate — she  tuck  me  ! 

"  An'  Gord,  how  I  loved  'er  !  I  was  clair  sp'iled 
wid  she  a'  choosin'  o'  me,  an'  I  commence  ter 
speculate  'bout  my  looks,  an'  I'd  meek  'ten'  like 
I  had  business  wid  ole  boss,  an'  meek  up  all  kine 
o'  'scuses  ter  go  up  ter  de  house,  jes'  so  I  c'd 
peep  in  de  hack-rack  look'n-glass  an'  see  Silvy 's 
ch'ice. 

"  I  wouldn't  o'  let  'er  do  a  turn  o'  work  ef  I 
c'd  o'  saved  'er,  an'  when  I'd  see  'er  in  de  fiel',  a- 
hoein'  in  de  rows  wid  de  big  black  wenches,  an' 
she  so  purty  an'  sweet  an'  shinin',  I  'lowed  ter 
myse'f  dat  dem  little  roun'  wris'es  warn't  made  ter 
fling  no  hoe. 

"  Ef  I  could  o'  did  de  way  I  wanted  wid  'er,  I 
b'lieve  I'd  o'  sot  'er  up  in  one  o'  dese  heah  glass 
sto'-cases,  wid  a  satin- silk -velveck  dress  on,  an' 
flung  lumps  o'  sugar  at  'er.  Yer  see,  I  loved  'er 
a  fancy  fashion. 


232  CRAZY    ABE 

"  Well— but, Marse  Torm,you's  a-gittin' tired!" 

"  No,  no  !  Go  on  !  I  am  interested,"  said  I ; 
and  in  truth  I  was. 

"  Well,  lovin'  'er  dat-a-way,  hit  nachelly  struck 
my  min'  ter  buy  'er  free. 

"  I  jes'  longed  ter  see  'er  come  an'  go,  any  way 
de  notion  teck  'er,  an'  so  I  axed  boss,  an'  he  was 
mighty  good. 

"  He  see  de  way  I  was  all  bruck  up  wid  lovin' 
'er,  an'  he  'lowed  dat  he'd  meek  it  easy  fur  me — 
dat  payin'  me  fur  wuck  'f o'  hours  an'  arter  times, 
I  mought  buy  her  free  fur  two  hon'red  dollars 
less  'n  he  guv  fur  'er. 

"  You  see,  Silvy  warn't  much  good  ter  ole  mars, 
ter. 

"  He  bought  'er  fur  a  sort  o'  house-gal  an'  hair 
dresser,  an'  dee  say  she  sassed  de  white  folks  reg'- 
lar,  an'  I  don't  'spute  it,  'caze  she  had  a  lively 
tongue,  git  'er  started,  an'  dat's  huccome  dee  sont 
'er  in  de  fiel',  an'  I  reckin  boss  would  o'  sol'  'er 
'cep'n  fur  me  o'  marryin'  'er. 

"  Ole  marster  nuver  done  sech  as  dat. 

"  Well,  I  wucked  'long  fur  fo'  years,  an'  I 
had  mos'  'nough  ter  buy  'er,  an'  I  was  happy  tell 
I  was  mos'  drunk  wid  happiness  ;  an'  Silvy,  she 
was  powerful  sot  on  freedom,  an'  'treckly,  'bout 
dis  time,  heah  come  de  prormus  dat  Gord  gwine 
ter  sorn  us  a  little  baby,  an'  I  was  dat  mixed 
up  wid  joy  an'  sorrer  dat  I  'ain't  knowed  what 
ter  do. 

"  In  cose,  I  was  'joyed  like  any  human,  but  I 


CRAZY    ABB  233 

was  sca'ed  dat  ef  boss  knowed  it,  he  mought  back 
out  o'  de  trade  an'  raise  de  price  on  Silvy. 

"An'  Silvy,  she  was  a-hurryin'  o'  me,  yearly 
an'  late,  ter  wuck  an'  save  ter  meek  up  de  money, 
so  dat  when  de  baby  come,  hit  mought  come  free  ; 
an'  jes'  'bout  dat  time,  Silvy  upsot  a  kittle  o'  bilin' 
water  an'  scalted  her  foot,  an'  had  ter  lay  up  in 
de  house  ;  an'  yer  know,  Marse  Torm,  she  'lowed 
ter  me  dat  she  done  it  a-purpose,  'caze  she  knowed 
dat  ef  she  kep'  a-gwine  in  de  fiel',  folks  was  gwine 
ter  talk. 

"  Well,  dat  time  I  had  all  de  price,  lackin'  twen 
ty-five  dollars,  an'  I  kuowed  I  didn't  had  no  mo'  'n 
'bout  three  mont's  ter  git  it,  an'  so  I'd  wuck,  sack- 
in'  cotton  seed  an'  sech,  all  night,  some  nights,  an' 
— well,  Marse  Torm,  de  evenin'  I  tuck  de  money 
up  ter  de  house,  ter  ole  marster,  I  'ain't  seed  de 
way  I  put  my  foot.  Seemed  like  I  was  bline,  an' 
dizzy,  an'  my  cornscience  stricken  me,  too,  'bout 
foolin'  ole  boss,  'caze  seemed  like  I  was  a-stealin' 
f'om  'im,  'caze  I  knowed  dat  he  nuver  s'picioned 
'bout  we's  baby  on  de  road  ter  freedom,  stid  o' 
b'longin'  ter  him. 

"  I  b'lieve  I'd  o'  up  an'  toP  'im,  but  Silvy,  she'd 
teck  on  ef  I  named  it,  an'  call  me  a  fool  an'  sech. 

"  Silvy  knowed  a  heap  o'  names  ter  keep  a  fel 
ler  down,  so  I  'ain't  named  it  ter  boss,  on'y  gi'n  'im 
de  money,  and  he  call-t  in  ole  Miss  an'  de  overseer 
ter  witness  dee  names  ter  de  paper,  an'  dee  signt 
'em  down,  an'  I  started  out  wid  de  free-paper. 

"  I  was  proud  as  de  President  o'  dese  Nunited 


234  CKAZY   ABE 

States,  but  feelin'  sort  o'  mean  'long  wid  it,  same 
's  a  man  mought  feel  wid  a  chicken  hid  in  his  hat, 
on'y  wuss. 

"  Well,  treckly  I  started  out,  boss,  he  call-t  me 
back,  an'  I  see  him  whisker  someh'n  in  ole  Miss's 
ear,  an'  ole  Miss  she  brung  me  a  little  bundle,  an' 
she  say :  *  Heah,  Abe',  she  say,  *  Heah's  a  little 
present  fur  Silvy.'  An'  she  ain't  said  no  mo,'  an' 
when  I  got  ter  de  kyabin  an'  me  an'  Silvy  git  done 
laughin'  an'  cryin'  an'  j'icin'  over  de  free-paper,  I 
'membered  'bout  de  little  bundle  what  ole  Miss 
gi'n  me  ;  an',  Marse  Torm,  what  yer  reckin  hit 
was  ?  Gord  !  Yer  could  o'  heern  a  pin  drap 
when  we  opened  dat  bundle  ! 

"Hit  was  a  whole  passel  o'  ole  Miss's  baby- 
cloze. 

"I  tell  yer,  Marse  Torm,  my  white  folks  was 
Gord's  own  people. 

"Seem  like  ole  Miss  was  a -say  in':  'You  po' 
chillen  'ain't  need  ter  hide  yer  baby ;  teck  it — you 
welcome  ter  it.' 

"  I  jes'  nachelly  sot  down  an'  cried,  I  did,  Marse 
Torm,  an'  love  my  white  folks  mo'  an'  mo';  but 
Silvy  'ain't  cried  none,  on'y  jes'  count  de  tucks  in 
de  long  dress  an'  hoi'  up  de  lace  'g'inst  de  light  an' 
laugh. 

"  But  Silvy  'ain't  claim  ter  have  'ligion.  She 
was  a  proud  little  gal. 

"  But  I  cried  good,  an*  my  heart  went  out  strong 
ter  ole  Miss  Heah  Silvy  been  wropped  up  in  big 
shawls,  claimin'  ter  be  chillin',  an'  mos'  a-sweatin' 


CRAZY    ABE  285 

ter  death  ter  keep  de  secret,  an'  a  scratchin'  'er 
so'e  foot  ev'y  day  ter  keep  out  'n  de  fiel'. 

"  Well,  bimeby  de  baby  come — a  purty  little 
yaller  gal-chile,  jes'  like  'er  ma,  an'  I  was  proud 
as  a  king,  an'  den,  one  day,  ole  marster  axed  me 
ef  I  ain't  a-gwine  ter  buy  myse'f  free,  an'  I  laugh 
an'  say :  '  No,  sir,  I  ain't  a-cravin'  arter  no  free 
dom.  I  ain't  nothin'  but  a  reg'lar  nigger.' 

"  I  heap'd  ruther  teck  all  de  extries  ter  buy 
fineries  fur  my  two  purties,  an'  I  done  it,  too. 

"  Well,  time  passed  'long.  Dee  say  time  fly — 
look  ter  me  dem  days  like  she  travel  in  a  blue 
streak  like  de  lightnin',  an'  'fo'  I  knowed  it,  de 
baby  was  a-stan'in'  'loney,  a-holtin'  on  ter  de  cheers, 
an'  growin'  purtier  an'  purtier  ev'y  day,  an'  'long 
'bout  dis  time — I  hates  ter  tell  yer  'bout  it,  Marse 
Torm — 'long  'bout  dis  time  dey  was  a  tall,  yaller, 
free-nigger  preacher  what  come  ter  preach  in  de 
Baptis'  Chu'ch. 

"  I  'ain't  liked  'im  when  I  fust  sot  eyes  on  'im. 

"  He  was  one  o'  dese  heah  long  -  face,  long- 
coat-tail,  long-laig,  long-pra'r  preachers.  He 
was  tall  an'  slim  —  he  was  dat  slim  tell  he  was 
narrer,  an'  sort  o'  cock-eyed.  Look  like  he  kep' 
one  eye  on  Heaven,  an'  helt  on  ter  sin  wid  de 
yether  one,  an'  he  was  powerful  sot  on  visitin' 
'mongs'  de  sisters. 

"  'Tain't  no  use  for  me  ter  talk  'bout  it,  Marse 
Torm  ;  but  one  night,  whils'  Silvy  was  gone  ter 
ineetin'  at  de  cross-roads,  an'  I  was  a-teckin'  kyar 
de  baby,  de  little  gal  tuck  ter  croupin'.  All  de 


236  CRAZY   ABE 

white  folks,  an'  my  own  color,  too,  dee  done  de 
bes'  dee  could,  but  'twarn't  no  use. 

"  When  Silvy  come  back,  an'  I  heerd  her  say 
good-night  ter  de  preacher  at  de  do',  she  come  in 
an'  see  de  little  gal  a-layin'  in  my  arms — daid. 

"  'Twarn't  sick  mo'u  'bout  f o'  hours. 

"  Well,  Marse  Torm,  in  cose  I  was  all  tarrified 
wid  grief  an'  bruck  up  'bout  losin'  de  little  gal, 
but  I  had  Silvy,  an'  I  blessed  Gord  fur  what  was 
lef. 

"  Seem  like  my  sperit  was  raised  ter  Heaven, 
like,  an'  Silvy  look  like  she  got  'ligiouser  an'  'lig- 
iouser,  an'  mo'  sot  on  de  preacher,  but  I  'ain't 
s'picioned  nothin'  tell  one  night  she  'ain't  come 
back  no  mo',  an'  when  I  look,  I  see  she  done  had 
tuck  all  'er  cloze  an'  gone — she  an'  de  preacher 
claired  out  in  de  night. 

"  I  'ain't  nuver  f ollered  'em.  He  was  mo'  her 
sort  'n  a  black  wuckin'  nigger  like  me;  but  I 
knowed  ef  I  sot  eyes  on  'im,  I'd  o'  kill-t  'im,  but 
'twouldn't  o'  bettered  me  none,  an'  I  'ain't  blamed 
'er — an'  I  'ain't  begrudged  buying  her  free,  nuther. 

"  She  warn't  none  o'  yer  cage  birds,  she  warn't ! 

"Look,  yonner  she  come  !" 

I  turned  quickly.  A  little  humming-bird  flut 
tered,  hovered  over  the  flowers  a  moment,  tasting 
here  and  there,  and  was  off  across  the  yard  to  the 
crepe  myrtles. 

The  old  man  smiled  as  he  watched  it. 

"  I  'ain't  got  nothin'  ag'in'  'er.  'Twas  jes'  in  nat 
ure.  She  warn't  my  kine  !"  He  spoke  meditative- 


CRAZY    ABE  237 

ly,  and  suddenly  his  face  brightened,  as  pointing 
to  a  little  yellow  butterfly,  he  exclaimed  :  "  Look, 
Marse  Torm,  yonner  de  baby !  She  comes  ter 
see  me  mos'ly  ev'y  day. 

"  De  f us'  time  I  reconnized  'er,  hit  sot  me  ter 
mos'  cryin'.  I  'membered  how  I  used  ter  love  'er 
an'  play  wid  'er  an'  dance  'er  on  my  foot ;  an' 
whils'  I  was  a-studyin'  on  it,  bless  Gord  ef  de  lit 
tle  yaller  thing  'ain't  come  an'  pyercbed  on  my  ole 
daid  foot  a  minute,  an'  den  riz  up  an'  flied  back 
ter  de  Kingdom." 

"  The  Kingdom  ?"  I  repeated,  questioningly. 

"  I  f orgits  you  don't  know,  Marse  Torm.  All 
my  people's  done  gone  inter  de  Kingdom  but 
'cep'  me,  an'  seem  sometimes  like  dee's  onpatient 
an'  calls  me  ter  come  ;  an'  when  I  looks  over 
yonner  'cross  de  fence  an'  see  de  corn  tassels 
a-wavin'  an'  a-beckonin'  at  me,  seem  like  dee's 
my  folks  what  done  crossed  over,  an'  dat's  hue- 
come  I  calls  de  corn-fiel's  de  Kingdom. 

"  Look  at  'em  now,  Marse  Torm,  jes'  seem  like 
dee's  a  baigin'  me  ter  come. 

"  I  d'  know  how  'tis,  'caze  in  cose  dis  is  all  in 
my  min',  'caze  Gord's  sperits  ain't  flyin'  roun' 
in  butterflies  an'  sech  ;  but  dat  little  yaller  one 
what  I  calls  de  baby,  hit  'ain't  nuver  is  come  f'om 
no  place  but  de  Kingdom,  an'  fly  back  de  same 
way. 

"  Seem  like  Gord  was  so  min'ful  o'  me  in 
my  lonesomeness,  like  He  wants  ter  lemme  see 
dat  de  baby  'ain't  forgittin'  me,  but  dat  she 


238  CEAZY    ABE 

b'longs  tor  de  Kingdom  an'  'bleeged  ter  go  back 
ag'in." 

I  was  assured  now  that  the  old  man  was  not 
insane,  and  so  I  ventured  to  ask,  "And  what 
about  these  weeds,  Uncle  Abe  ?" 

He  laughed.  "  Oh,  dee's  all  my  little  f  ambly — 
dee  jes'  nachelly  b'longs  ter  me. 

"  Silvy  an'  de  baby  dee  'ain't  nuver  'zac'ly 
b'longed  heah,  nohow,  an'  dee  comes  an'  goes. 

"  Silvy,  she  jes'  come  ter  me  fur  a  little  spell, 
'caze  I  was  strong  an'  willin'  ter  holp  'er — same 
as  de  hummin'-bird  teck  what  she  want  an'  go — 
an'  de  baby,  she  b'longed  ter  de  Kingdom. 

"  Gord  on'y  loaned  'er  fur  a  season.  But  deze 
heah  little  black  haids,  roun'  heah,"  he  chuckled 
as  he  said  it,  "  dee  jes'  nachelly  growed  up  ronn' 
my  foots." 

The  sound  of  the  dinner-bell,  and  the  simul 
taneous  invitation  by  a  little  white- shirted,  black- 
legged  chap  who  ran  up  to  the  cabin  shouting, 
"  Dinner  radey  !"  put  an  end  to  my  visit. 

I  left  the  old  man  with  a  feeling  very  differ 
ent  from  that  with  which  I  had  approached  him ; 
but  bidding  him  good-by  and  promising  to  come 
again,  I  followed  the  little  negro  into  the  house. 

I  needed  no  reminder  of  my  promise  to  repeat 
my  visit. 

Next  morning,  having  seen  from  my  window 
that  he  was  in  his  accustomed  seat,  I  stepped  over 
to  Abe's  cabin,  taking  him  as  a  treat  a  dozen  of 
my  best  cigars. 


CKAZT   ABB  289 

To  my  surprise,  he  declined  them,  though  evi 
dently  pleased  with  the  attention. 

"No,  no,  sir,''  he  protested.  "  Ef  I  sot  up  heah 
puffin'  a  c^gar,  I'd  git  ter  'lowin'  I  was  white, 
sho'  'nough  ! 

"  I's  sp'iled  'nough  now,  a  settin'  up  heah  ringin' 
a  bell  whensomever  I  wants  a  drink  o'  water, 
same  's  white  folks." 

*  I've  come  this  morning  for  some  more  of 
your  story,  Uncle  Abe,"  said  I,  drawing  up  my 
chair. 

"  Yer  wants  me  ter  'splain  'bout  all  dese  yo'ng 
black  haids,  does  yer  ?"  Glancing  at  the  weeds, 
he  laughed  as  he  had  done  before,  but  as  he  be 
gan,  his  face  took  on  a  tinge  of  sadness. 

"  I  toP  yer,  Marse  Torm,  how  watchin'  fur  Silvy 
an'  de  baby  comin'  an'  goin'  started  me  ter  huntin' 
'bout  fur  company. 

"Well,  I  has  ter  tell  yer  how  'twas  arter 
Silvy  lef  me.  I  jes'  nachelly  wilted  down,  like 
— same  as  a  plant  de  fros'  done  struck  —  an', 
in  cose,  I  bruck  up  in  my  kyabin  an'  I  went  back 
an'  live  wid  my  daddy.  He  was  livin'  den,  an' 
him  an'  he's  wife,  an'  he's  wife's  gal,  Dorcas — 
what  she  had  'fo'  she  married  my  pa — dee  lived 
togedder. 

"  I  allers  call-t  Dorcas  sister  ;  howsomever  she 
warn't  no  kin  ter  me,  no  mo'n  our  mammy  an' 
daddy  dee  married,  but  we  was  riz  f'om  chillen 
togedder. 

"  Dorcas,  she  was  one  o'  dese  heah  plain,  brown, 


240  CRAZY    ABE 

straight,  strong-arm,  strong-ban*,  regular  wuckin' 
gals,  dat  go  an'  come  an'  'ain't  say  much  ;  an' 
when  I  come  home  all  bruck  up,  like  I  was, 
Dorcas  show  dat  sense  not  ter  name  my  trouble 
to  me ;  but  jes'  look  like  she  'ain't  nuver  f  orgittin' 
me,  a-men'in'  my  cloze,  an'  dee  was  a-needin'  it, 
too — 'caze  Silvy,  she  didn't  had  no  men'in'  ways, 
somehow,  not  sayin'  nothin'  ag'in'  'er— but  Dorcas, 
she  'tend  ter  me  same  's  a  good  sister,  an'  cook 
my  victuals  reg'lar  an'  nice,  ain't  nuver  guv  me 
no  druggy  coffee,  and  keep  my  flo'  all  a-shin'in' 
an'  white,  wid  lye  she  meek  in  de  hopper — she 
'ain't  use  dis  heah  cornsecrated  lye,  like  Silvy — 
an'  she  jes'  nachelly  looked  arter  me,  an'  when  I'd 
'gin  ter  mope  roun',  she'd  meek  'ten'  like  she  ain't 
seein'  it,  an'  maybe  pop  corn  ober  de  fire  ob  a 
evenin'. 

"  But  I  was  dat  se'f -conceited,  I  tuck  it  all, 
same  as  I'd  teck  de  sun  an'  de  rain,  an'  'ain't  see 
it,  an'  a  year  pass  dat-a-way,  an'  a  heap  o'  de 
boys  come  a-co'tin'  Dorcas,  but  look  like  she  'ain't 
crave  ter  marry,  an'  I  'ain't  s'picion  nothin'  tell 
one  Sadday  night. 

"  Ev'y  Sadday  night  Dorcas  kill-t  a  chicken  fur 
my  Sunday  dinner,  an'  I  knowed  she  sot  a  heap 
o'  sto'  by  dem  chickens. 

"  Well,  one  Sadday,  she  done  had  kill-t  all  but 
'cep  jes'  two,  an'  dee  was  sort  o'  pets,  pickin'  an' 
eatin'  roun'  de  house,  an'  know  dey  names,  an'  she 
say  ter  me,  she  say,  'Abe,'  she  say,  '  which  is  de 
purties'  hain,  Yaller-laig  ur  Speckle  ?'  An'  I  say, 


CEAZT   ABE  241 

'Speckle  heap  de  purties','  an'  'fo'  I  knowed  it,  she 
done  had  kill-t  Yaller-laig,  an'  'ain't  kill-t  Speckle 
jes'  on  de  count  o'  me  a-praisin'  'er. 

"  Well,  dat  open  my  eyes,  'caze  yer  know,  Marse 
Torm,  gals  dee  don't  bodder  long  wid  sech  as  dat 
fur  no  brudders. 

"  Well,  yer  know  folks  kyant  grieve  fo'ever — 
dee  jes'  nachelly  kyant  do  it — an'  so  bimeby  Dor 
cas  an'  me,  we  tuck  up  an  married;  an'  now,  when  I 
looks  back,  seem  like  all  my  life  b'longs  ter  Dorcas. 

"  She  was  strong  an'  kine  an'  nuver-forgittin', 
an  look  like  I  was  'pen'in'  on  'er  fur  ev'y thing  'fo' 
I  knowed  it. 

"  Well,  we  had  a  whole  passel  o'  chillen.  An' 
now,  whils'  I  was  a-settin'  heah,  bidin'  my  time, 
waitin',  yer  mought  say,  an'  noticin'  fust  de 
hummin'-bird  an'  den  de  baby,  one  day  I  was  a- 
lookin'  up  in  dis  heah  vine,  an'  a  long  branch  seem 
like  hit  was  a-reachin'  ter  me,  quiet  like,  an'  gentle 
an'  strong,  an'  I  see  de  vine  was  a-holdin'  de  sun 
out'n  my  eyes,  an'  a-temperin'  de  win'  on  my 
back,  an'  all  on  a  suddint,  seem  like  hit  was  Dor 
cas,  jes'  standin'  by  my  side  an'  watchin'  over  me 
'fo'  I  knowed  it — jes'  de  same  way  I  'skivered  'er 
in  de  flesh. 

"  An'  when  de  vine  growed  down  ter  touch  my 
haid,  seem  like  hit  was  sof  an'  strong  like  Dor 
cas's  ban',  an'  I  put  it  froo  de  back  o'  my  cheer, 
an'  I  baiged  'em  tell  dee  nailed  de  cheer  ter  de 
flo',  so's  dee  kyant  breck  it  orf  a-movin'  it ;  an' 
now  it  done  growed  stronger  an'  stronger,  tell  I 
16 


242  CRAZY   ABE 

c'n  lean  my  haid  ag'in'  it,  an'  seem  like  hit's  Dor 
cas,  hit  so  stiddy  an'  'ain't  nuver  leave  me. 

"  Well,  seem  like  I  was  happy  wid  findin'  Dor 
cas,  an'  bimeby  I  commence  ter  notice  two  o'  deze 
yaller  flowers,  like  yer  see  yonner,  two  o'  derii 
black-face  ( nigger-haids '  a-growin'  on  one  stem, 
right  heah  by  my  side,  an'  dee  'minded  me  ob  a 
pair  o'  twin  babies  Dorcas  an'  me  had  ;  an'  f'om 
dat  I  jes'  nachelly  commenced  ter  pick  out  all  our 
little  fambly  roun'  de  po'ch,  an'  dee  comes  ev'y 
year. 

"  Yer  see  dat  thistle  growin'  dar,  Marse  Torm. 
I  was  wantin'  ter  pull  it  up,  'caze  seemed  like  hit 
'ain't  b'longed  ter  my  little  crowd  ;  an'  I  reached, 
an'  reached,  an'  I  couldn't  git  it,  an'  I  was  a-feerd 
ter  ax  anybody  else,  less'n  dee  mought  pull  up 
some  o'  de  chillen,  an'  so  I  lef  it  'lone  tell  de 
fros'  come,  an'  when  de  win'  commence  ter  teck  it 
orf,  same  as  goose  fedders,  tell  hit  was  mos'  gone, 
I  knowed  hit  come  ter  'mine  me  ob  a  little  ejiot 
chile  o'  ourn. 

"Hit  growed  up  purty  an'  peart  an'  fine,  tell 
seem  like  de  blight  stricken  it,  an'  same  as  de 
thistle-haid  go  ter  de  win',  all  he's  little  senses 
look  like  dee  blowed  away. 

"An'  when  I  knowed  de  thistle  come  to  'mine 
me  o'  him,  I  was  glad  I  'ain't  pulled  it  up,  'caze 
he's  got  the  same  right  as  the  res',  an'  I  knows 
when  I  meets  'im  in  the  Kingdom  he'll  be  whole 
an'  soun'  like  de  balance. 

"  Look  at  'im  now,  Marse  Torm. 


CRAZY   ABE  243 

"He  was  jes'  dat-a-way  'fo'  de  blight  teched 
'im." 

The  old  man  looked  with  an  expression  of 
simple  fondness  upon  the  handsome  purple  bloom 
just  opening  at  his  feet,  and  seemed  for  a  moment 
to  lose  himself  in  contemplation. 

"  What  about  these  over  here  ?"  I  asked,  point 
ing  to  a  row  of  pot-plants  on  the  opposite  end  of 
the  gallery,  conspicuous  among  them  a  gorgeous 
red  geranium,  aggressively  brilliant  now  in  its 
scarlet  bloom. 

"  Oh,  dee's  de  white  folks !"  he  replied,  laugh 
ing.  "  Dee's  de  quality — all  but  'cep'  dat  big 
rade  geranejum  in  de  square  box,  I  calls  hit  Mr. 
Meyers !" 

He  laughed  heartily  here,  and  in  response  to 
my  look  of  inquiry,  proceeded  to  explain. 

"  You  d'  know  nothin'  'bout  Mr.  Meyers,  Marse 
Torm.  He  was  a  rade-haid,  rade-face  overseer 
what  we  all  had  indurin'  o'  de  wah  what  'ain't 
done  nothin'  but  jes'  spit  terbacker  an'  cuss. 

"  I  d'  know  huccome  dat  geranejum  'mines  me 
o'  Mr.  Meyers. 

"Seem  like  hit  look  at  me  biggoty-fied  an'  'ain't 
hoi*  itse'f  in,  an'  I  don't  call  it  nothin'  but  Mr. 
Meyers,  jes'  fur  granjeur  ;  an'  some  days  when  de 
win'  strack  it  an'  look  like  he  go  ter  teckin'  on  too 
'bove-ish,  I  cusses  'im — jes'  doggon'  an'  sech — but 
I  'ain't  mean  no  harm. 

"Some  mornin's,  when  yer  hears  me  a-laughin' 
out  heah,  I  ain't  doin'  nothin'  but  a-devilin'  Mr. 


244  CEAZY    ABE 

Meyers,  jes'  ter  pass  de  time,  'caze  I  knows  he  kyant 
cuss  back,  but  I  'ain't  mean  no  harm — jes'  a-passin' 
de  time." 

I  looked  at  my  watch  and  rose  to  go,  express 
ing,  as  best  I  could,  my  pleasure  in  the  visit,  and 
as  I  started  away  I  added,  hardly  measuring  my 
words  : 

"  I  hope  you'll  be  better  soon,  Uncle  Abe." 

"  I  ain't  sick  !"  he  answered  quickly.  "I's  on'y 
stricken  fur  a  warnin',  and  when  the  time  come, 
I  don't  look  fur  no  pain. 

"  Seem  like  hit'll  be  jes'  de  same  way  as  de 
warnin'  come— like  now  I's  heah  and  now  I  ain't, 
but  I's  radey,  bless  Gord,  whensomever  de  call 
come. 

"  Good-by,  Marse  Torm,  good-by  !  Come  an7 
see  me  ag'in  'fo'  yer  go.  Good-by  ;  Gord  bless 
yer  !" 

And  a  tremulous  shake  of  the  half -palsied  hand, 
a  smile  and  a  tear  were  the  last  I  saw  of  Uncle 
Abe. 

It  was  perhaps  an  hour  after  this  that,  looking 
from  my  window,  I  saw  a  crowd,  negroes  and 
whites,  rushing  toward  the  little  cabin,  while  a 
voice  called  out  in  alarm  : 

"  Come  quick  !  Crazy  Abe  look  like  he  done 
daid !" 

I  was  there  in  a  moment. 

It  was  as  he  had  prophesied. 

There  had  been  no  pain.  The  same  smile  rested 
on  the  peaceful  face,  but  the  tear  was  dry.  The 


CBAZT   ABE  245 

head,  fallen  back,  rested  on  the  softly  matted  ten 
drils  of  the  faithful  vine. 

As  I  approached,  a  little  yellow  butterfly  rose 
from  its  resting-place  in  the  white  hair  and  flew 
over  to  the  cornfields.  I  watched  the  pale  yellow 
wings  until  they  finally  disappeared  in  the  waving 
field. 

Stirred  by  a  sudden  breeze,  the  corn-tassels 
threw  up  their  heads  ;  long,  green  leaves  raised 
themselves,  like  joyous  arms,  and  flapped  in  the 
wind. 

The  figure  was  finished. 

There  was  joy  in  the  Kingdom. 


QUEEN  ANNE 


QUEEN  AKKTE 

IT  was  late  in  the  evening,  and  I  was  driving 
in  leisurely  fashion  over  the  picturesque  road 
that  lies  in  Arkansas  between  the  good  old  towns 
of  Washington  and  Columbus.  Sensitive  to  the 
beauties  of  wild  nature,  as  most  city-bred  people 
are,  I  had  enjoyed  every  foot  of  my  drive,  and 
now,  when  a  shaft  of  sunlight  from  low  in  the 
west  suddenly  penetrated  the  wood  about  me,  I 
drew  rein,  that  I  might  enjoy  the  scene  for  a 
moment. 

Autumn  tints,  barely  visible  before,  seemed  sud 
denly  to  burst  into  living  flame,  sumach,  maple, 
and  sweet-gum  glowing  with  their  respective  fires, 
while  here  and  there  a  vivid  buckeye  sent  up  a 
burning  torch  of  scarlet  bloom.  And  behold  rev 
elations  of  life  on  every  side  !  The  bois  (Tare 
hedge,  from  whence  a  moment  ago  came  only 
suspicious  twittering,  was  now  alive  with  flutter 
ing  gray  figures. 

On  a  gray  branch  just  above  me  perched  a 
plumed  squirrel,  while  a  brilliant  green  snake 
twisted  himself  in  and  out  of  a  clump  of  leaves 
so  like  himself  in  color  that  no  less  a  detective 
than  the  sun  would  have  betrayed  him. 


250  QUEEN    ANNE 

A  cloud  of  autumn  leaves,  crisped  and  sere  from 
early  frost,  rose  on  a  sudden  breeze  and  crossed 
the  road,  and  lo,  as  they  fell  before  me,  I  per 
ceived  among  them  a  covey  of  partridges.  An 
other  gust — leaves  filled  the  air  again,  and  when 
they  fell  once  more,  the  partridges,  too,  were 
gone. 

And  now,  just  at  my  side,  leaning  against  an 
old  charred  stump — how  strange  that  I  hadn't 
seen  her  before  ! — was  a  little  plantation  darky. 

Only  a  "little  nigger"  standing  beside  a  coun 
try  road,  as  natural  a  feature  of  the  landscape  as 
the  bois  d'arc  hedge  behind  her,  or  the  cotton- 
field  beyond,  quite  as  ubiquitous  a  variety  of  life 
here  as  the  band  of  guinea  fowl  that  played  their 
metallic  music  in  rivalry  with  the  cow  bell's  a 
stone's  throw  away,  or  the  scrub  outdoor  hog 
that  upturned  a  molehill  within  reach  of  her  arm. 

A  round  little  face,  black  as  a  raven's  wing — 
a  mop  of  sun-burned  hair,  r»ed  as  a  fox's  brush — 
a  diminutive  figure,  erect,  and  in  slenderness  like 
a  bamboo  reed — nervous  bare  toes  that  burrow 
in  the  sand — a  tattered  garment  of  faded  home 
spun — how  the  sun  revealed  it  all  as  she  stood 
there  in  its  full  glare  by  the  roadside  ! 

"  And  who  is  this  ?"  I  asked,  smiling,  as  soon 
as  I  could  recover  myself,  for  in  truth  the  sud 
den  revelation  of  this  near  human  presence  sur 
prised  me  greatly. 

"  Name  Queen  Anne,"  she  answered  directly, 
unabashed  and  serious. 


QUEEN    ANNE  251 

"  Queen  Anne  !  And  what  are  you  queen  of, 
pray  ?"  I  asked,  laughing  now. 

She  looked  at  me  curiously  a  moment,  and 
shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  I  don'  know,  sir,  less'n  I  des  queen  o'  de  wil 
derness." 

Her  utter  lack  of  self -consciousness  attracted 
me. 

"  And  what  is  your  majesty  doing,  wandering 
out  unattended,  so  late  in  the  evening  ?"  I  con 
tinued,  playfully. 

"I  d'  know  nothin'  'bout  no  majesty,"  she  re 
plied  with  naive  directness.  "  They  ain't  nothin' 
b'longin'  ter  me  roamin'  roun'  heah  as  I  knows  on. 
Ain't  no  pusson  heah  but  'cep'  me  an'  granny." 

Following  her  glance,  I  now  saw,  lying  in  the 
shadow  of  the  stump,  an  aged  negress,  yawning 
and  stretching — waking  from  sleep. 

"  Your  grandmother  ?"    I  asked. 

"  Yas,  sir.  I  fetches  'er  out  ev'y  day  ter  see 
folks  a-passin'.  She  des  foolish  in  de  haid  f'om 
ole  age,  an'  I  has  ter  min'  'er." 

The  old  creature,  perceiving  me,  began  a  high- 
noted  harangue,  unintelligible  excepting  for  the 
word  "  bacco,"  which,  with  her  outstretched  hand, 
served  to  interpret  the  whole. 

I  was  sorry  to  have  none  of  the  weed  with  me, 
but  I  threw  her  a  coin,  and  promising  the  child 
to  bring  some  tobacco  on  my  return,  I  started  on. 

Before  turning  into  the  deep  wood  beyond,  I 
drew  rein  again  for  a  moment,  and  looked  back. 


252  QUEEN   ANNE 

There  was  something  in  the  extreme  youth  and 
diminutiveness  of  this  little  child,  out  of  sight  of 
human  habitation,  holding  guard  over  her  irre 
sponsible  charge,  that  attracted  me  rather  pain 
fully. 

They  were  crossing  the  road  as  I  looked  back, 
the  old  creature  supporting  herself  on  the  little 
girl's  shoulders. 

It  was  a  pretty  picture.  How  vividly  it  comes 
back  to  me  to-day  ! 

If  this  had  been  all ;  if  I  had  never  come  back 
that  way,  little  Queen  Anne  and  all  her  uncon 
scious  picturesqueness  would  have  remained  only 
a  central  figure  in  a  casual  memory  sketch,  but  as 
it  is,  I  feel  like  taking  off  my  hat  in  the  presence 
of  the  memory  of  the  simple-hearted  child  who 
stood  barefoot  in  the  road  on  that  autumn  even 
ing. 

Business  detained  me,  and  it  was  several  weeks 
before  I  returned. 

Ere  I  realized  my  proximity  to  the  spot,  I  per 
ceived  the  child  standing  again  in  the  shadow 
of  the  same  stump  by  the  roadside. 

Drawing  from  my  pocket  the  package  of  to 
bacco,  to  which  I  had  added  some  candy,  wonder 
ing  the  while  if  Queen  Anne  would  remember  me, 
I  turned  to  address  her,  when  I  perceived  that  she 
was  weeping. 

"  Granny  done  daid !"  she  exclaimed,  sobbing 
aloud. 

Had  she  discerned  a  note  of  sympathy  in  my 


QUEEN   ANNE  253 

previous  interview  with  her,  that  she  waited  here 
to  tell  me  of  her  sorrow  ? 

I  was  much  moved  by  the  insignificant,  grief- 
stricken  child, and  exclaimed, impulsively,  "Why, 
why,  why,  I  am  very  sorry.  And  what  are  you 
doing  with  yourself,  child  ?" 

"  Marse  John  seh  he  gwine  look  out  for  a  kine 
pusson  to  teck  me — you  seems  lak  a  kine  pusson. 
Does  you  know  air  kine  lady  wha'  need  a  handy 
lill  gal  ter  wait  on  'er  ?"  Thus,  between  sobs,  she 
told  me  why  she  hopefully  awaited  my  return. 

I  did  know  a  certain  kind  lady  at  home,  and 
a  certain  baby  who  needed  just  such  service,  but 
yet  I  hesitated. 

What  did  I  know  of  this  wild,  wayside  weed  ? 
What  did  her  guardians  know  of  me  ? 

"And  who  is  this  ' Marse  John'?"  I  asked, 
evading  the  appeal. 

"He  we'all's  new  boss.  He  seh  he'd  teck  me 
'isse'f,  but  he's  one  o'  deze  heah  ole-yo'ng-bache- 
lor  mans,  wha'  ain't  married  nur  nothin' — dey 
don't  need  no  handy  pusson  roun'  Jem.  Yon'  'e 
come  now  !" 

Glancing  down  the  road  I  perceived,  approach 
ing,  a  man  on  horseback.  He  was  apparently 
young,  though  his  hat  was  drawn  down  so  as  to 
obscure  his  face. 

Something  strangely  familiar  in  the  pose  of  the 
man  attracted  me,  and  when  he  came  up,  halting 
in  the  shadow  of  the  buggy,  he  raised  his  hat. 

"  John !" 


254  QUEEN   ANNE 

"  Ben  !" 

How  delightful  are  these  unexpected  meetings ! 

My  room-mate  at  college,  my  chum,  my  best- 
beloved  boy-friend,  John  Goodwynn,  was  at  my 
side,  looking  into  my  face,  grasping  my  hand. 

When  last  I  had  heard  of  him,  five  years  before, 

he  held  a  professorship  in College,  and  had 

pledged  his  life  to  science. 

Explanations  came  quickly. 

"Eyes  gave  out — inherited  this  old  place — 
came  here  for  rest — but  pshaw  ! — when  a  man 
loves  a  thing — going  up  to  the  house  now  for  a 
microscope — digging  a  pond  for  my  cows — I  find 
study  for  a  year.  Come  on  up  to  the  house,  old 
boy  ;  got  a  lot  of  curios  there.  The  sight  of  you 
is  better  to  my  eyes  than  a  year's  rest.  Married, 
are  you — you  wretch  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  happy  as  June-bugs,  we  three  !" 

"  Three  !    Ha,  well,  and  this  third  party  ?" 

"  Ben,  junior,  of  course,  and  in  need  of  a  handy  lit 
tle  pusson,  des  like  Queen  Anne  here,  to  wait  on  him. 
You  see  I've  been  making  friends  with  her  majesty." 

"Say,  Ben,  are  you  in  earnest  about  that?"  he 
asked,  as  we  started  to  the  house,  "  for  if  you 
are,  it's  all  right.  The  little  pickaninny  hasn't 
kith  or  kin  to  interfere,  and  I  know  she'll  be  safe 
with  you,  old  fellow." 

And  so,  after  talking  the  matter  over,  it  was 
decided. 

And  this  is  how  we  got  Queen  Anne. 

The  child  never  appeared  so  diminutive  as  the 
day  I  led  her  in  to  meet  my  wife. 


QUEEN    ANNS  255 

"  Allow  me,"  said  I,  with  mock  ceremony,  "  to 
present  to  you  her  Majesty,  l  Queen  Anne,'  queen 
o'  the  wilderness,  alias  '  a  handy  lill  gal  to  wait 
on  a  kind  lady  !' " 

Taken  by  surprise,  but  in  no  wise  abashed,  the 
child  responded  with  a  ducking  courtesy,  as  she 
said,  "  How  yer  come  orn,  lady  !" 

My  wife  laughed  outright,  though  she  cordially 
extended  her  hand,  and  pleasant  relations  were 
forthwith  established. 

Our  year-old  boy,  with  childish  intuition,  held 
out  his  arms  to  her  at  once,  to  her  infinite  delight, 
and  from  that  moment  never  had  veritable  queen 
more  loyal  subject  than  he. 

Queen  Anne's  resources  as  an  entertainer  were 
unfailing,  and  her  fund  of  song,  dance,  and  story 
as  inimitable  as  inexhaustible. 

The  religious  instinct,  so  strong  in  her  race, 
seemed  to  dominate  her  every  other  sense,  and, 
though  gleaned  from  ignorant  and  superstitious 
teachers,  her  ideas  had  all  a  substratum  of 
truth. 

Most  of  her  plays  were  artless  imitations  of 
religious  services,  of  one  sort  or  another. 

1  recall  a  verse  which  seemed  a  favorite  with 
her,  and  which  she  truly  excelled  in  singing.  It 
ran  like  this : 

"  Yo'ng  chillen,  you  should  love  de  Lord, 
An'  keep  yo'  giarmints  clean, 
Fo'  fear  dat  you  should  fall  in  sin — 
An'  jedgmint  roll  between." 


256  QUBEN   ANNE 

This  seemed  essentially  an  emotional  perform 
ance,  and  begun  in  a  low,  vibrating  tone,  rose 
tremulously  and  swelled  to  the  last  line,  when 
all  things  awful  seemed  in  order,  her  hands  be 
gan  to  clap,  body  to  sway,  and  when  "jedgmint 
rolled"  from  her  lips,  over  she  rolled  bodily — 
limp,  insensible. 

There  was  no  ridicule  in  this.  It  was  mere 
imitation,  pure  and  simple. 

Her  wide-eyed  wonder  over  the  novelties  of 
the  city  was  as  amusing  as  refreshing  ofttimes, 
and  her  alacrity  in  grasping  new  ideas  led  her 
occasionally  into  queer  little  mistakes. 

On  the  occasion  of  her  first  receiving  a  card 
from  one  of  two  lady  callers,  she  turned  immedi 
ately  to  the  other,  and  asked,  "Did  you  come  in 
widout  no  ticket  ?" 

A  favorite  pastime  with  her  was  standing  at 
the  gate  "  choosing  ladies "  from  gayly  dressed 
passers. 

Standing  thus,  one  day,  she  called  to  the  ser 
vant  next  door,  "  Oh,  Tildy,  is  y'all  got  a  pianner 
over  to  yo'  house  ?" 

"  Yas,"  came  the  answer,  "  We  got  a  upright 
piano.  What  sort  is  yo'  madam  got  ?" 

"  We'all  got  a  downright  one,"  she  replied,  un 
hesitatingly,  but  quickly  slamming  the  gate,  she 
indignantly  came  in. 

One  warm  day,  my  wife  having  taken  her  down 
town,  gave  her  a  glass  of  soda-water. 

She  had  never  seen  the  effervescent  drink  be- 


QUEEN   ANNE  257 

fore,  and  drank  it  with  childish  delight,  but  in 
a  few  moments  she  grasped  my  wife's  arm  in 
terror. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Mar'gret,  I  sho'ly  is  pizened  !"  she 
exclaimed.  "  Dat  fizly  stuff  is  a-shootin'  me  in 
de  nose  !" 

But  why  recall  more  of  the  little  girl's  blun 
ders  ?  She  was  with  us  for  three  years,  and  we 
never  saw  the  shadow  of  a  lie  in  her  honest  black 
face,  nor  touched  a  disloyal  chord  in  her  affec 
tionate  heart. 

"Miss  Mar'gret"  was  in  all  things  her  ideal 
lady,  "Marse  Ben"  her  model  gentleman,  the 
baby  her  constant  loved  companion,  I  had  almost 
said  her  idol. 

One  day  our  baby  waked  up  with  flushed  face, 
and  the  following  morning  the  doctor  said  that 
dread  name,  "  scarlet  fever." 

Unwilling  to  have  her  unnecessarily  risk  con 
tagion,  we  sent  Queen  Anne  to  a  neighbor,  though 
she  pleaded  piteously  to  remain. 

On  the  fourth  day,  the  crisis  of  the  disease  was 
approaching,  and  the  doctor's  cab  was  at  the  gate 
many  times. 

While  we  sat  in  the  early  twilight,  anxiously 
watching  the  little  sufferer,  the  door  opened  so 
softly  that  we  did  not  know  she  had  entered  until 
Queen  Anne  knelt  at  the  cradle  between  us. 

"  P-1-e-a-s-e,  Miss  Mar'gret,  don't  sen'  me  away," 
she  begged.     "  I  'ain't  nuver  is  disobeyed  you  be- 
fo',  an'  I  ain't  afeered." 
17 


258  QUEEN    ANNE 

We  could  not  send  her  back.  No  one  would 
have  taken  the  risk  of  receiving  her. 

And  so  she  stayed.  She  was  but  a  little  child, 
and  in  an  hour  was  fast  asleep  on  the  floor,  but 
during  the  long  days  of  tedious  convalescence 
following  she  was  untiring  in  her  childish  devo 
tion. 

The  first  evidence  of  returning  consciousness 
that  our  baby  gave  was  in  following  her  with 
languid  eyes  about  the  room,  even  before  he 
raised  his  feeble  arras  to  her. 

He  was  playing  about  the  room  when  Queen 
Anne  took  the  fever. 

We  nursed  her  as  we  had  done  our  own,  but 
the  doctor  said  from  the  first  that  there  was  no 
hope. 

It  was  pitiful  to  hear  her  laugh  aloud  in  her 
delirium,  the  same  gushing  laughter  that  in  health 
told  of  a  happy  heart,  and  the  little  convalescent 
at  her  side  would  echo  it,  delighted,  and  perceiv 
ing  our  serious  expressions,  looked  in  questioning 
wonder  from  our  faces  to  hers. 

She  had  been  in  a  stupor  all  morning  of  the  day 
she  died,  and  in  the  evening,  while  we  sat  watch 
ing  her,  she  started  up  suddenly,  a  bright  smile 
illuminating  her  face  as  she  began  feebly  to  sing 
her  favorite  song  : 

"  Yo'ng  chillen,  you  should  love  de  Lord — " 

Her  voice  broke  several  times  over  the  words, 
"  keep  yo'  giarmints  clean,"  and  her  breath  came 
filowly. 


QUEEN   ANNE  259 

"We  opened  the  window  to  give  her  air,  and  a 
last  ray  of  the  evening  sun  covered  her  for  an 
instant,  and  when  it  went  out  it  carried  with  it 
the  pure  spirit  of  little  Queen  Anne. 

She  had  gone  with  clean  garments  into  the 
Master's  presence. 


CAMELIA  RICCARDO 


CAMELIA  EICCAEDO 

C AMELIA  RICCARDO  was  a  belle  in  her 
set. 

If  you  had  seen  a  picture  of  her  fair  face,  sep 
arated  from  its  surroundings,  you  would  have 
said  she  might  have  been  a  belle  in  any  set ;  that 
is,  if  soft  black  eyes,  cheeks  like  damask  roses, 
hair  long,  black,  and  braided,  and  lips  made  up 
of  rosy  curves,  go  to  constitute  that  feminine  at 
traction  commonly  so  called.  Taken  with  the 
limitations  of  a  most  circumscribed  environment, 
however,  her  possibilities  of  "belledom"  narrow 
down  to  a  single  set;  and  that  this  "set"  was 
rather  far  down  in  the  social  scale,  we  perceive  at 
a  glance  by  the  very  tokens  that  augment  both 
her  attractiveness  and  her  opportunities  within 
this  limited  circle. 

Could  anything  be  more  picturesque  than  her 
unconsciously  aesthetic  dress  of  red  merino, 
shrunken  through  constant  washing  to  undue 
shortness  of  waist,  and  lengthened,  regardless  of 
aught  save  modesty,  by  a  flowered  flounce  of  an 
tique  design,  while  about  her  neck  gleamed  the 
gaudy  colors  of  a  brilliant  green-and-red  figured 
cotton  kerchief?  Could  anything  be  more  piq- 


264  CAMELIA    RICCAKDO 

uant  than  her  ever-changing  attitudes,  each  ex 
pressive  of  some  vivacious  emotion,  and  each  a 
marvel  of  uncultured  grace  ?  At  a  distance  of 
several  feet  to  left,  to  right,  and  above  her, 
hung,  in  artistic  alternation,  orange  -  branches 
fruit-laden,  pineapples,  bananas,  plantains,  cocoa- 
nuts,  and  every  fruit  that  lends  itself  to  suspen 
sion  by  stem  or  hair  ;  while  beneath  these  lay, 
stacked  on  shelves  in  pyramids  or  ranged  after 
the  fashion  of  mosaics  in  conventional  designs,  a 
tropical  profusion  of  the  smaller  fruits. 

The  fruit-stand  was  hers,  and  she  was  belle — of 
the  French  Market. 

The  elaborate  decoration  of  her  stall — the  pret 
tiest  in  all  the  market — was  her  own  handiwork, 
and  if  you  said  one  day  that  the  arrangement  was 
perfect,  on  the  morrow  you  would  think  it  plain, 
in  contrast  with  the  new  design  of  the  morning. 

And  she  was  smart !  Ask  the  butchers  in  the 
market  or  try  to  take  advantage  of  her  in  a  trade  ! 
She  would  sell  to  half  a  dozen  customers  at  once, 
giving  each  his  correct  change,  while  she  smiled 
on  a  seventh  ;  and  no  one  of  them  all  would  pass 
on  without  receiving  a  twofold  favor,  lagniappe 
and  a  smile,  either  of  which  would  insure  his  re 
turn.  If  you  but  stopped  to  look  at  her  oranges, 
she  threw  two  or  three  into  a  dainty  paper  sack 
and  put  it  confidingly  into  your  hands,  while  the 
pretty  lips  said — in  a  voice  as  musical  as  an  ideal 
"trala!"— "Fi'cenM" 

Did  you  hesitate,  another  orange  was  recklessly 


CAMELIA    RICCARDO  265 

dropped  in  and  the  same  voice  said  "lagniappe" 
in  two  more  music  notes  and  with  an  air  that 
seemed  to  say,  "  Since  it's  you  !"  You  bought 
the  oranges,  of  course  ;  or,  if  you  didn't,  the  man 
behind  you  did,  and  so — what  was  the  difference  ? 

Diagonally  across  from  Camelia's  stand  was 
that  of  a  young  Sicilian,  Immanuel  Prebasco  by 
name,  known  throughout  the  market  as  "Dago 
'Manuel,"  to  distinguish  him  from  a  fellow-coun 
tryman  of  the  same  name,  who  "  would  fight  any 
man  who  called  him  a  Dago."  The  other  one  was 
an  "  Italian  bawn,"  he  would  have  you  know,  and 
would  "tich-a  you  weeth-a  wan  blague  eye  who 
you  call-a  wan-a  Dago  !" — as  he  was  wont  to  say 
upon  provocation  ;  and  his  sturdy  fist,  raised 
menacingly,  gave  emphasis  to  his  threat. 

This  'Manuel  was  not  so  proud.  He  often  said, 
with  amiable  philosophy  :  "  Wen  somebody  call-a 
me  wan-a  Dago,  s'pos-a  I  break-a  he's  head — w'ad's 
the  differend  ?  I  am  wan-a  Dago,  all-a  same  !" 
And  his  lounging  attitude,  as  he  yawned  and 
stretched  himself,  exemplified  with  equal  truth 
the  genuineness  of  his  sentiment. 

Dago  'Manuel's  one  strong  point  was  his  love 
for  Camelia.  She  was  his  vision  of  the  night,  his 
day  -  dream  ;  and,  unfortunately,  half  his  days 
were  spent  in  dreaming,  for  his  business  partook 
of  the  gentle  spirit  of  his  philosophy.  It  was 
comfortable,  but  it  was  slow.  Needless  to  say, 
'Manuel  was  lazy.  Basking  in  the  sunlight  of  ac 
cidental  propinquity,  he  lived  happy  days  in  gaz- 


266  CAMELIA   KICCARDO 

ing  fondly  upon  the  materialization  of  the  image 
of  his  dreams,  and  took  no  thought  for  the  mor 
row.  Camelia  was  near  him — it  was  enough.  He 
could  even  talk  over  the  heads  of  her  customers 
to  her,  when  she  had  time  to  listen,  for,  it  must  be 
understood,  she  was  a  woman  of  business. 

"Loan-a  me  wan-a  bunch-a  banana,  'Manue?/" 
she  called  out  to  him  one  morning.  "  I  am  all-a 
sell  oud  1" 

"  Take-a  my  whole  shorp  !"  he  answered,  and, 
lowering  his  tone  as  he  hung  his  best  bunch  up  in 
her  stall  for  her,  he  continued,  tapping  the  bosom 
of  his  checked  flannel  shirt :  "  Take  -  a  the  boss 
too,  eh,  Camelia  ?" 

"  Wad  I  wan'  weeth-a  you,  'Manuel" 

He  leaned  against  the  end  of  her  stall  on  his 
folded  arms,  getting  his  handsome  face  very 
near  hers,  as  he  answered  :  "  I  lorv-a  you  J  Tha's 
nod-a  good  rizzen  fo'  mague  you  wan*  me,  eh,  Ca 
melia?" 

She  stepped  aside  to  serve  a  customer,  but  was 
soon  back  again.  It  was  late,  and  the  morning 
rush  was  over. 

"'Manuel,  I  wan'-a  ass-a  you  sometheen,"  said 
she.  "  You  theen  thaz  a  good-a  rizzen  f o'  me  to 
marry  weeth-a  you  ?" 

"  'S  the  bez  rizzen,  Camelia  !" 

Another  customer  came  and  went,  buying  more 
of  the  borrowed  bananas,  but  Camelia  had  soon 
resumed  her  place.  The  subject  seemed  not  very 
distasteful  to  her. 


CAMEUA   KICCAKDO  267 

"  You  say  thaz  the  bez  rizzen,  eh,  'Manuel  f  If 
thaz  the  bez  rizzen,  then  I  muz-a  ged  marry 
weeth  abou'  twenny-fi'  young  mans.  Every  wan 
mague  me  thad  sem  rizzen  /" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  laughed  ;  but 
'Manuel  frowned  visibly  and  straightened  himself, 
as  he  replied  :  "  Thing  you  god-a  mo'  senz,  blif 
everytheen  all-a  them  fool-a  mans  tell-a  you,  Ca- 
melia.  God-a  no  business  tell-a  you  sometheen 
ligue  thad  !" 

"Ees  thad  so,  'Manuel f  You  theen  thad 
business  ees  just-a  fo'  you,  eh?"  And  she  ran 
off,  laughing,  to  meet  a  crowd  of  buyers  ;  and  the 
coquette  was  for  the  moment  merged  into  the 
keen  little  woman  of  trade. 

'Manuel  was  out  of  spirit.  He  strolled  moodily 
across  to  his  own  stall,  hesitated  in  front  of  it, 
then,  languidly  selecting  a  specked  apple  from  a 
picayune  pile,  threw  it,  with  indolent  force  that 
told  of  reserve  strength,  across  the  levee.  It 
rolled  and  bumped  and  bounced  along  the  wharf 
until  suddenly,  disappearing  in  a  hole  in  a  broken 
plank,  it  fell  into  the  river  below.  Another  fol 
lowed,  and  another,  all  sharing  the  same  fate. 

"  Throw-a  yo'  prorfit  in  the  riv'  poody  straight, 
eh,  'Manuel"  said  a  neighbor  Dago,  by  way  of 
pleasantry. 

"  'Manuel  ees-a  good-a  short,  yas  !  Keel  every 
time-a  !  Blif  'e  ged  mo'  ridger  shoot-a  dork  'n 
sell-a  banana,"  another  added,  laughing. 

'Manuel  was  in  no  mood  for  retort.     Folding 


268  CAMELIA    RICCARDO 

his  arms,  he  strolled  leisurely  around  to  the  op 
posite  side  of  his  stall,  abstractedly  re-arranged  a 
row  of  pyramids  of  black -edged  bananas,  and 
finally,  drawing  out  from  under  the  lowest  shelf 
a  box  of  lemons,  he  seated  himself  astride  its  ex 
treme  end,  so  that  its  contents  were  beneath  his 
hands  ;  and  now,  taking  their  stained  wrappers 
from  the  decaying  lemons,  he  proceeded  deliber 
ately  to  re-wrap  them  in  fresh  papers.  It  was  the 
work  of  an  hour,  during  which  time  he  rose  occa 
sionally,  exchanged  a  pile  of  bananas  for  a  nickel, 
and  returned  moodily  to  his  task. 

Finally,  having  finished,  he  pushed  the  box 
back  with  his  foot,  and  calling  to  a  neighbor, 
"  Mine-a  my  shorp  for-a  me  !"  he  strolled  through 
the  market  and  seated  himself  on  the  last  of  a 
row  of  stools  at  a  coffee-counter. 

It  was  near  noon  on  Sunday  morning.  The 
half-past  eleven-o'clock  bell  had  rung  nearly  half 
an  hour  ago.  Butchers  on  all  sides  were  scraping 
stalls,  opening  ice-boxes,  and  packing  up,  pre 
paratory  to  leaving  when  the  noon  gong  should 
sound  its  command.  A  few  who  did  not  care  to 
wait  for  the  chance  custom  of  tardy  marketers, 
had  already  closed  their  shops  and  were  hurrying 
away. 

Camelia  had  cleared  and  boxed  in  the  lower 
shelves  of  her  stall,  and  piled  the  remaining  fruit 
on  the  top,  intending  to  go  home  as  soon  as  her 
little  brother  should  come  to  take  charge.  She 
sat  now,  with  a  wooden  cigar-box,  her  "cash 


CAMKLIA   KICCAKDO  269 

drawer,"  open  upon  her  lap,  while  she  hastily 
counted  the  receipts  of  the  morning. 

"Severty-fi',  eighdy,  eighdy-fi',"  she  counted 
aloud,  as  she  added  nickels  to  the  sixth  dollar  of 
fractional  coins  that  lay  in  her  red-merino  lap. 
She  was  so  intent  on  counting  that  she  seemed 
not  to  notice  that  a  man  had  seated  himself  at 
her  side.  When  at  last  she  did  look  up,  however, 
it  was  evident  from  her  unchanged  expression 
that  the  man  was  no  stranger. 

"  I  thing,  me,  yo'  lill  han'  is  too  pritty  f o'  coun' 
money,  Camelia,"  he  said ;  "  'twas  nod  made  fo' 
thad." 

"  Tague-a  yo'  han'  a-way,  M'sieu  Fran9ois  !  I 
show  you  terregly  for-a  w'ad  my  han'  ees  mague  !" 
and  she  raised  her  palm  threateningly.  "You 
mague  me  /o'gid  all-a  my  cound,"  she  fretfully 
added. 

"  I  know  yo'  coun',  lill  gal,  five  dolla'  an'  eighty- 
five  cen'.  I  mague,  me,  deze  mornin',  nine'y  cen' 
more  as  you,  on  nutting  bud  mutton  chorp.  Al- 
togedder,  deze  week,  mague  'ondred  an'  twenny- 
five  dollah  cleah  prorvit."  And  he  rattled  the 
silver  contents  of  a  little  white  canvas  bag  and 
laid  it  at  her  side. 

"  I  theen-a  you  muz-a  be  gedd'n  verra  reech-a, 
M'sieu  Fran9ois." 

"I  got  'nough,  theng  God  !"  he  answered,  and 
then  he  added,  tenderly,  "Got  'nough  /o'  two, 
Camelia  !  W'ad  you  say  ?" 

"Well,  of  coze  I  say  geev-a  me  wan-a  'alf," 


270  CAMELIA    KICCAKDO 

and  she  playfully  laid  her  hand  on  the  canvas 
bag. 

His  head  bent  lower. 

"You  can  'ave  'alf,  lill  Caraelia  !  H'only  the 
'alf  w'ad  you  tague  muz  draw  wan  prize,  an'  you 
muz  'ave  to  tague  the  prize  ad  the  sem  tarn  !" 

Camelia  seemed  very  obtuse.  "Tha's-a  mo' 
bedder  yed.  Was-a  the  prize,  M'sieu  Fran- 
9ois  ?" 

The  Gascon  rose  and  looked  about  him.  There 
was  no  one  near.  He  made  a  profound  bow,  and, 
with  his  hand  pressed  against  his  breast,  said  im 
pressively  :  "  Fran9ois  Leboeuf,  ghrade-ghran'son 
of  Alphonse  Leboeuf,  w'ad  'ave  that  sem  stan'  in 
the  Frenge  Moggit  w'en  General  Jackson  fighd 
wid  doze  cotton-bale,  N  offer  'imselve  to  you!" 

"W'ad  I  god-a  do  weeth-a  Genera'  Jackso'  ?" 
she  answered,  pettishly. 

"  N-u-t-t-i-n-g  !  I  h'only  wan  let  you  know  oo 
eet  ees  w'ad  wan'  marry  wid  you." 

"Of  coze,  M'sieu  Fran9ois,  I  know  you  ees 
wan-a  gread  man  !  I  know  you  ees  the  fines'-a 
man  een  the  Frenge-a  Mogged,  bud —  M'sieu 
Fran9ois,  you  know  some-a-theen  ?" 

"  W'ad  ees  thad,  lill  Camelia  ?" 

"  You  don'd-a  sude  me,  M'sieu  Fran9ois  !" 

The  Gascon  was  furious.  "  Thaz  all  you  god-a 
say  to  Jean  Fran9ois  Leboeuf,  w'ad  'ave  so  far 
/bgid  ees  phride  to  h'ass  you  marry  wid  eem  ?" 

"Thaz  all,  M'sieu  Frangois.  Thaz-a  the  only 
rizzen  I  won'  marry  weeth-a  you.  'F  I  thoughd 


CAMELIA    BICCAKDO  271 

you  would-a  sude  me,  I  would  just-a  soon  marry 
weeth-a  you  's  weeth-a  some  orther  mans." 
Her  tone  was  gentle,  apologetic,  humiliating. 
"  Thing  w'ad  you  say  !     'Tis  yo  laz  chanze,  Ca- 
melia  !     The  ghrade-ghran'son  of  Alphonse  Le- 
boeuf  don1  wan1  befool  wid,  no!" 

"I  don'-a  fool  weeth-a  you,  M'sieu  Fran9ois. 
'F  I  thoughd  you  would-a  sude-a  me,  I  wou'n  care 
northeen  'boud-a  Genera'  Jackso'  an'  doze  cotto'- 
bale  w'ad  fighd  weeth-a  heem.  Would  marry 
weeth-a  you  all-a  same." 

"Sacra—  W'ad  the  dev' !  W'ad  you  talk 
aboud,  Camelia  ?  General  Jackson  an'  doze  cot 
ton-bale  'ave  nutting  to  do  wid  me  /" 

"Then  for-a  w'ad  ees  you  spik  aboud  them 
every  time  you  ass-a  me  marry  weeth-a  you  ?" 

"  'Tis  my  phride  !  H'all  doze  family  of  Le- 
boeuf  'ave  ghread  p-h-ride." 

Camelia  rose,  tied  her  hat-strings,  and,  in  the 
most  unemotional  way  possible,  said  :  "  My  money 
ees  all-a  cound,  M'sieu  Fra^ois,  an'  my  brorther 
ees -a  come.  Goo' -by!"  and,  quietly  turning 
away,  she  left  him — left  Jean  Fran9ois  Leboeuf, 
the  richest  butcher  in  the  market,  standing,  in  the 
midst  of  his  harangue,  as  she  would  hardly  have 
left  the  humblest  suitor—left  him  rejected — in 
dignant. 

He  stood  gazing  after  her  a  moment,  muttered 
something  about  "the  dev',"  but  finally,  recov 
ering  himself,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
laughed— actually  laughed,  as  he  drew  from  his 


272  CAMELIA    RICCARDO 

breast-pocket  a  package  of  cigarettes,  lit  a  match 
with  one  stroke  down  the  side  of  his  trousers, 
puffed  once,  twice,  and  walked  off. 

Besides  being  the  richest,  Fran£ois  was  also  the 
handsomest  butcher  in  all  the  market.  Tall,  dash 
ing,  heavily  moustached,  and  be -diamonded,  he 
was  as  thoroughly  lionized  in  his  set  as— an  Eng 
lish  cotton-buyer  or  a  popular  leader  of  the  ger- 
man  in  another.  "Monsieur  Franyois"  seemed  to 
his  admiring  neighbors  to  have  all  the  elegancies 
of  a  man  of  the  world.  .  He  threw  into  the  open 
basket  of  the  Sister  of  Charity,  who  paused  at  his 
stall  on  her  daily  rounds,  cutlets  that  would  have 
sold  for  much,  with  a  reckless  nonchalance  that 
must  have  delighted  the  ghost  of  his  "  ghrade- 
ghran'f  odder,"  and  made  his  soul  repose  in  peace 
ful  pride.  Men  who  have  grandfathers  of  whom 
they  are  proud  should  always  give  to  the  poor 
with  a  loftiness  of  mien  that  makes  the  gift  seem 
to  be  reminiscent  of  generations  of  bounty.  Mon 
sieur  Fran9ois  realized  this,  and,  in  a  different 
way,  the  Sister  of  Charity  realized  it  too  from 
her  opposite  standpoint,  in  the  less  blessed  office 
of  receiving.  She,  at  least,  realized  something 
which  made  her  smile  very  appreciatively  and 
bow  very  low,  as  she  did  not  smile  and  bow  to 
the  rest  of  the  butchers.  Whether  it  was  the 
presence  of  greatness  which  she  perceived  in  the 
oft-resurrected  grandpbre,  at  which  she  smiled,  as 
does  the  babe  who  sees  an  angel  in  its  sleep,  or 
whether  she  was  sordid  and  earthly  enough  in  her 


CAMELIA  KICCAEDO  273 

heavenly  vestments  to  defer  thus  to  the  greater 
quantity  and  better  quality  of  the  alms,  we  can 
not  say.  The  thing  visible  was  more  meat,  more 
smiles — but  let  us  not  judge.  Monsieur  Fran9ois's 
role  in  it  all  was  that  of  My  Lord  Bountiful,  and 
it  was  becoming  to  him. 

There  were  other  aristocratic  points,  too,  about 
Monsieur  Fran9ois.  For  one  thing,  he  lived  in  his 
own  house,  an  inherited  home,  and  —  his  sisters 
played  the  piano.  No  firemen's  ball  or  Sunday 
picnic  of  the  French  quarter,  that  thought  much 
of  itself,  was  en  rbgle  without  his  name  on  one  or 
two  of  its  important  committees.  Those  of  his 
confreres  of  the  market  who  enjoyed  the  honor  of 
knowing  him  socially  considered  him  somewhat 
incomplete  as  to  appearance  without  a  badge  of 
some  such  distinction  on  his  breast. 

Camelia  Riccardo  was  not  in  his  set.  She  lived 
humbly,  very  humbly,  in  a  lowly-squatting,  beavi- 
ly-shedded  oyster-shop,  near  the  market.  Its  two 
windows,  one  of  which  was  nailed  up  for  the  ac 
commodation  of  inside  shelves,  looked  out  from 
under  the  shed  roof  like  a  pair  of  bad  eyes  from 
a  scowling  face,  which  seemed  to  bear  a  family 
resemblance  to  the  Riccardo  p&re,  who  was  one- 
eyed,  dark,  and  grim. 

Besides  selling  oysters  and  fruit  at  home,  Nich 
olas  Riccardo  peddled  vegetables  and  small  fruits 
from  his  wagon  through  the  streets,  but  there  was 
a  pathetic  languor  about  all  he  did.  It  was  pa 
thetic  in  its  opposition  to  anything  like  enter- 
18 


274  CAMELIA   RICCARDO 

prise,  in  its  contempt  of  success.  You  caught  it 
in  the  minor  key  in  which  he  drawled  out :  "Swee' 
po-ta-ders — ten — cen' — a — buck-e-e-t;"  in  the  slow, 
rickety  movement  of  his  unwashed  wagon-wheels; 
in  the  sunburnt,  unkempt  coat  and  mane  of  his 
uncurried  pony. 

Camelia  had  the  energy  as  well  as  the  beauty 
of  the  family,  and  since  she  had  gone  into  the 
market  as  bread-winner,  they  were  seeing  better 
days.  Still,  they  were  poor.  Their  front  room, 
festooned  with  strings  of  garlic  and  pepper-pods, 
and  furnished  with  counter  and  shelves,  was  shop, 
restaurant,  and  parlor  combined.  The  corners  of 
its  floor  were  filled  with  piles  of  onions  and  pota 
toes,  and  as  you  approached  its  one  door,  you 
were  greeted  with  the  smell  of  garlic.  It  was  like 
the  father's  breath.  Outside  the  door  was  the 
fruit -stand,  and  here,  tending  shop,  while  her 
father  took  his  siesta,  Camelia  spent  her  after 
noons.  If  sales  were  slow,  and  they  generally 
were,  she  filled  the  intervals  industriously,  knit 
ting  the  broad  cotton  lace  that  adorned  the  Sun 
day  frocks  of  the  entire  family  feminine — her 
mother,  self,  and  five  little  sisters. 

Every  one  in  the  market  knew  that  Frangois 
was  not  the  least  ardent  of  Camelia's  suitors, 
and  he  was  pronounced  her  "  bez  chanze "  by 
all.  There  was  that  in  the  manner  of  this 
eligible  parti,  however,  which  offended  Camelia: 
it  was  a  lack  of  deference.  She  could  have 
defined  it  in  no  better  way  than  she  expressed 


CAMELlA    EICCAEDO  275 

it  to  himself,  when  she  said,  "You  don'd-a  sude 
me." 

He  did  not  suit  her.  Dago  'Manuel,  on  the  con 
trary,  was  all  respectful  devotion.  He  worshipped 
her.  The  day  after  her  rejection  of  Fra^ois, 
'Manuel  came  and  talked  to  her  again.  He  hated 
his  dashing  rival  as  only  those  who  love  can  hate. 

"  Seem  to  me,  Camelia,  thad-a  fool  Gascon 's  god 
plenny  cheek,  yas — talk  every  day  weeth-a  you," 
said  he,  when  for  the  first  time  that  morning  he 
found  her  at  leisure. 

He  had  strolled  across  to  her,  as  was  his  wont, 
and  stood  now  lazily  pressing  the  blade  of  his  pen 
knife  in  and  out  of  its  handle  against  the  end  of 
her  stall.  He  spoke  with  marked  indirectness, 
gazing  into  space  —  an  uncultured  way  of  ap 
proaching  an  embarrassing  subject  by  an  assump 
tion  of  carelessness. 

•  Camelia  took  the  cue.  She  could  be  indifferent, 
too.  Seizing  an  improvised  dust-brush — a  bunch 
of  turkey-tail  feathers  tied  together — she  began 
in  nonchalant  manner  to  dust  the  top  rows  of 
fruit,  while  she  replied  : 

"  'S-a  very  nize  young  man,  'Manuel  'S-a  very 
ridge-a." 

'Manuel  lifted  his  glance  from  space  and  focused 
it  directly  into  her  face  as  he  said  :  "  Ridges  don' 
mague  somebody  'appy,  Camelia  !" 

She  stopped  dusting,  folded  her  arms,  and,  tap 
ping  her  left  shoulder  nervously  with  the  brush, 
said  slowly  :  "Know  sometheen,  'Manuel ?  Thad-a 


276  CAMELIA   BICCAKDO 

man  wa's  goin'-a  ged  marry  weeth-a  me,  's  god-a 
mague  plenny  money,  yas  !" 

She  even  ventured  to  look  into  his  face,  as  she 
added  :  "  I  am  ti\  me,  of  bein'  po' !" 

'Manuel  was  almost  savage  now  as  he  asked  : 
"  You  goin'  marry  weeth-a  Fran9ois,  Camelia  ?" 

She  dusted  her  own  skirt -front  abstractedly 
with  the  turkey-tails  as  she  answered  with  naive 
coyness  :  "'S  god-a  nize  houze,  'Manuel/  Sez  to 
me,  sez, '  Camelia,  I  goin'-a  geeve-a  you  wan-a  fine 
piano.' " 

"  Piano  !  Holy  Sain' !  Wad  you  goin'-a  do 
weeth-a  wan  piano,  Camelia  ?" 

She  laughed.  It  was  ridiculous.  Dropping  the 
duster  on  the  shelf,  she  raised  both  hands  and 
looked  at  them,  turning  them  over,  showing  now 
their  dimpled  brown  knuckles  and  now  the  red 
palms. 

"Sez  to  me,  sez,  '  Camelia,  yo'  lill-a  han'  ees  too 
pritty  fo'  coun'  money.  'S  just-a  nize  fo'  diamon' 
ring  an'  a  play  piano.' " 

'Manuel  scowled.  "  'F  'e  say  some-a-theen  ligue 
thad  to  you  'gain,  'm  goin'-a  kill  'im !  'S  god-a 
no  business  loog  ad  yo'  han'." 

She  had  gone  far  enough.  With  a  pretty 
movement,  she  lay  her  right  hand  close  beside 
'Manuel's,  that  rested  its  dark  length  now  on  the 
edge  of  her  stall.  His  looked  ugly,  sinewy,  mas 
culine,  strong,  against  the  plump  little  one  beside 
it.  She  held  it  there  a  moment  in  silence  ;  then, 
regarding  'Manuel  with  a  strange,  half -serious  air, 
she  said : 


CAM  ELI  A    RICCARDO  277 

"Thing  yo'  ban'  loog-a  mo'  stronger  than-a 
mine,  'Manuel;  bud  thing  mine  mague-a  mo' 
money  than-a  yoze." 

'Manuel  made  no  reply,  and  she  continued  : 
"Seem  to  me,  'Manuel,  thad  ban'  muz-a  nod  eg- 
speg  theze-a  wan  to  work  for  a-heem  !" 

"  Fo'  God's  sague  !  Wad-a  you  talk,  Camelia  ? 
Theez-a  ban's  willin'-a  work  fo'  thad-a  wan  !  ToP 
eem  so,  tousan'  o'  time  !" 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  Finally  Came 
lia  spoke  again.  "  Wen  thad-a  ban'  beat  theze-a 
loan  mague-a  money,  can  'ave  it  /" 

Then,  laughing  and  blushing  as  if  she  had  said 
too  much,  she  ran  off  to  the  other  end  of  her  stall. 
But  'Manuel  had  caught  her  serious  tone.  He  fol 
lowed  her  with  eager  eyes,  as  one  dazed,  for  a 
moment ;  then  crossed  over  to  his  own  stand. 

Later  that  day  Fran9ois  came  again  and  talked 
with  Camelia.  He  was  in  love  with  the  beautiful 
girl,  and,  besides,  her  indifference  piqued  while 
it  surprised  him.  Camelia,  nervous  and  excited 
over  the  thing  she  had  just  said  to  'Manuel,  now 
flirted  recklessly  with  the  Gascon. 

'Manuel  looked  at  them,  and  saw,  but  did  not 
perceive,  them.  His  heart  was  too  full  of  new 
sensations  to  admit  a  jealous  pang.  There  comes 
a  time  to  most  of  us — and  woe  to  him  to  whom  it 
never  comes — when  we  first  seem  to  meet  our 
Selves,  face  to  face  ;  when  we  are  humiliated  and 
confused  by  the  contrast  between  this  real  self 
and  the  ideal  self  that  had  made  us  self-respecting. 


278  CAMELIA   RICCAKDO 

In  our  consciousness  of  endogenous  growth,  from 
the  heart  outward,  we  had  felt  sure  of  our  devel 
opment,  for  had  not  our  hearts  gone  out  of  us 
with  each  aspiration  ?  As  the  banana  -  stalk, 
conscious  only  of  the  perfect  leaf  sent  heaven 
ward  from  its  heart,  is  shocked  when  it  beholds 
its  garment  of  rags  mirrored  in  the  stream,  so  we, 
in  this  first  startling  interview  with  self,  are  cha 
grined  at  the  ultimatum  of  our  heart's  best  im 
pulses.  We  blush  to  see  that  they  had  scarcely 
risen  above  our  heads  before  they  were  riddled 
by  the  first  passing  breeze,  and  the  ideal  charac 
ter  in  which  we  fancied  ourselves  clothed  is  but 
a  wind-riddled,  rusty  fringe  of  broken  resolutions. 

'Manuel  had  no  formulated  standards.  He  had 
not  so  much  as  a  vague  conception  of  an  ideal, 
and  in  this  first  moment  of  self-consciousness — of 
real  living  —  he  could  not  have  given  his  experi 
ence  a  name.  He  only  knew  suddenly  that  he  was 
a  lazy,  miserable,  good-for-nothing  dreamer,  and 
he  did  not  know  this  quite  clearly  ;  yet  this 
knowledge,  imperfect  as  it  was,  this  picture,  dark 
ly  seen,  of  his  real  self,  was  quickly  offset  by  an 
other — a  possible  self—  the  self  whose  manliness 
Camelia  had  challenged  ;  and  thus,  from  his  first 
introspection,  began  to  evolve  his  first  ideal — an 
ideal  with  strength  corresponding  to  the  weakness 
which  he  saw  in  the  real  picture. 

He  sat  with  his  back  to  the  market,  facing  the 
river,  and  there  was  a  strange  new  look  in  his 
classic  face.  He  held  his  strong  right  hand  out 


CAMELIA   KICCAKDO  279 

before  him,  opening  and  closing  it  with  such 
force  as  to  bring  all  its  powerful  muscles  into 
play.  Then  he  stretched  out  his  long,  sinewy 
leg,  doubled  his  fist  and  struck  his  hard,  mus 
cular  thigh,  as  he  muttered  between  his  clenched 
teeth: 

"My  God!  My  God!  The  dev'  ain'  got  no 
shame  !  'F  I  was  a  man,  I  wou'n-a  had-a  face  to 
lorv'  'er  !  Gred,  big,  lazy  loafer  !  Wad  for 
somebody  ain'-a  kill  me  ?  My  God  !  I  swea' — 
yas,  I  swea'  am  a  man/" 

Then  he  suddenly  rose  to  his  feet,  and,  looking 
neither  to  right  nor  to  left,  walked  out  on  the 
wharf  toward  the  river,  leaving  his  fruit-stand 
without  guard.  He  was  living  his  first  joyous 
birth-moment  of  spiritual  life — the  life  that  was 
stirred  within  him  by  one  glimpse  of  a  woman's 
love  !  What  were  material  values  in  a  moment 
like  this — the  loss  of  a  customer  more  or  less? 
Camelia  loved  him — loved  him  as  he  was — for 
what  he  might  be. 

He  continued  his  walk  until  he  reached  the 
river's  edge  and  there  stood,  looking  down  upon 
the  deep  eddying  water  and  seeing  nothing.  He 
recalled  Camelia's  words  ;  saw  again  the  love- 
look  that  had  risen  unbidden  to  her  eyes  in  one 
unguarded  moment  ;  saw  the  little  hand  that  lay 
beside  his  ;  heard  again  her  challenge,  her  prom 
ise  !  Tears  rose  to  his  eyes.  "  I  swear — I  swear  ! 
Before  God,  I  swear  !"  These  were  his  only 
spoken  words,  and  here,  alone  with  his  heart,  he 
spoke  them  in  Italian. 


280  CAMELIA    RICCABDO 

He  lingered  a  long  time  at  the  water's  edge  ; 
when  he  returned  to  the  market,  Camelia  had 
gone,  and  he,  too,  gathered  up  his  fruit  and  went 
home. 

Next  day  'Manuel  did  not  appear  in  the  mar 
ket,  and  on  the  next  his  stall  was  empty.  He 
had  come  in  the  evening  with  Raphael,  his  young 
cousin,  a  lad  of  thirteen  years,  and  taken  away 
all  his  remaining  stock  in  trade.  He  had  made 
no  explanations.  He  lived  "  away  up  in  Boulig- 
ny,"  several  miles  above  the  market,  and  his  coming 
or  going  was  not  deemed  of  sufficient  importance 
to  warrant  a  journey  of  inquiry  thither,  though 
there  were  surmises  in  regard  to  his  absence,  and 
jests — enough  of  them.  Days  passed,  and  yet  he 
did  not  come,  and  everybody  laughed  and  looked 
at  Camelia.  Francois  waxed  especially  facetious 
over  it,  and  one  morning  he  perpetrated  a  joke  at 
the  expense  of  the  absent,  which  caused  no  little 
merriment,  and  threw  Camelia  somewhat  off  her 
guard.  Improvising  a  placard  from  the  top  of 
an  old  pasteboard  box,  he  hung  it  over  the  de 
serted  stall.  It  bore  these  words  :  "  Cloze  for 
repare" 

Camelia  could  not  read  the  words,  but  she 
caught  their  spirit  of  ridicule,  and  the  sign  had 
hardly  swung  when  she  climbed  up,  tore  it 
down,  and  threw  it — in  the  Gascon's  face  !  Then, 
without  a  word,  she  turned  and  went  to  her  own 
stall.  This  exhibition  of  loyalty  to  'Manuel  was 


CAMELIA    RICCARDO  281 

taken  as  a  betrayal  of  tender  sentiment,  and  the 
little  crowd  that  had  gathered  about  Fra^ois 
looked  at  each  other  with  surprised  glances, 
and  there  were  exclamations  : 

«  O— ho  !" 

"  Spunky  lill  gal,  yas  !" 

"  That's  what's  the  matter,  eh  ?" 

And  one  facetious  young  butcher  touched 
Fran9ois  under  the  ribs  and  said  :  "  Might  's 
well  give  up,  young  man !  B'lieve  you  got  no 
chance." 

But  no  one  asked  Camelia  any  more  questions 
about  'Manuel.  She  wondered,  as  did  every  one 
else,  as  to  the  cause  of  his  absence,  but  she  con 
cealed  her  anxiety  so  well  that  every  one  thought 
she  knew. 

'Manuel  lived  in  a  small  corner  hovel  up  in  the 
sixth  district,  and  kept,  like  most  of  his  country 
men,  a  little  fruit  and  oyster  shop.  Raphael 
tended  shop  during  the  mornings,  while  'Manuel 
sold  in  the  market ;  and  in  the  afternoons,  while 
'Manuel  took  charge,  the  boy  hawked  the  perish 
able  wares  through  the  streets. 

The  first  few  days  that  'Manuel  spent  at  home 
were  passed  in  deep  thought.  He  had  sworn  an 
oath,  sworn  it  with  all  the  strength  of  his  resur 
rected  manhood,  and  he  swore  it  again  twenty 
times  a  day,  as  the  memory  of  Camelia's  little 
hand  beside  his  own,  and  of  the  one  brief  glimpse 
into  her  heart  that  her  womanly  words  had  given 
him,  recurred  to  him.  He  would  prove  himself 


282  CAMELIA   BICCAEDO 

worthy  in  the  one  material  way  in  which  he  had 
been  lacking.  He  would  make  money  like  a  man, 
and  Camelia  should  use  it — like  a  woman,  yes, 
like  a  lady!  And  he  would  begin  now.  He 
walked  up  and  down,  up  and  down  his  little  shop 
— out  through  the  narrow,  dirty  back  yard,  be 
tween  piles  of  empty  barrels  and  boxes — think 
ing,  thinking. 

It  is  easy  to  swear.  Ah,  and  when  one  is  filled 
heart  and  soul  with  an  indomitable  will,  it  is  easy 
to  do.  The  question  in  'Manuel's  mind  now  was 
only  "How?"  He  looked  about  him,  upon  the 
picture  of  waste  and  dirt,  as  at  a  blank  wall. 
There  seemed  no  answer  to  his  demand  for  suc 
cess  in  the  dilapidated  piles  of  lumber,  in  the 
paltry  stock  of  over-ripe,  decaying  fruit,  in  the 
inquiring  face  of  the  dependent  boy  at  his  side. 

But  soon,  under  the  force  of  his  resolve,  the 
elements  of  failure  round  about  him  began  to 
rearrange  themselves,  and  the  combination  as 
sumed,  vaguely  at  first,  the  form  of  a  new  word 
— Success. 

And  the  first  letter  of  the  new  word  was 
wrought  in  cleanliness.  Load  after  load  of  trash 
was  carted  away  from  'Manuel's  back  yard,  to 
make  way  for  a  new  guest,  whose  name  was 
Thrift.  'Manuel  had  formulated  his  plan,  and 
found  relief  in  the  labor  it  involved.  All  day 
long  he  worked  with  the  plane  and  saw  ;  and 
soon  disreputable-looking  contributions  of  the 
old  lumber-pile  began  to  shine  beneath  his  hand 


CAMBLIA   RICCABDO  283 

as  fresh  planks,  adorned,  as  the  work  progressed, 
with  points  and  scallops.  Before  a  week  had 
passed,  there  stood  in  his  back  yard  a  handsome 
set  of  shelves  in  pyramidal  form.  It  was  twice 
as  large  as  his  present  stand  in  the  market,  and 
from  its  top  arose  a  canopy,  spreading,  umbrella- 
fashion,  over  the  whole,  and  the  canopy  was  bor 
dered  with  points  and  scallops,  the  embroidered 
planks  of  the  lumber-pile. 

Then  came  the  painting — green  and  white  and 
red,  Italy's  own  colors.  The  red,  too,  was  the 
tint  of  Camelia's  cheek,  the  white  was  the  ivory 
of  her  teeth,  and  the  green  was  the  hue  of  the 
kerchief  that  lay  about  her  neck — and  'Manuel 
was  satisfied. 

Raphael  had  assisted  'Manuel  as  he  could  ;  and 
while  they  worked,  the  two  were  frequently  in 
close  conversation.  'Manuel  was  often  emphatic, 
always  serious,  but  Raphael  would  frequently 
shake  his  head  and  scream  with  laughter.  He 
was  a  beautiful  boy,  and  his  life  of  trade  had 
made  him  shrewd  and  quick.  If  'Manuel  had 
possessed  his  young  cousin's  energy,  things  might 
have  progressed  more  smoothly  between  him  and 
Camelia  from  the  first. 

Finally  the  work  of  art — and  love — was  finished. 
At  midnight  'Manuel  and  Raphael  put  it  on  a 
wagon  and  took  it  down  to  the  market,  and 
when  the  sun  rose  across  the  river,  its  beams  fell 
on  a  structure  the  like  of  which  had  never  been 
seen  in  the  place  ;  and  'Manuel  was  not  there  to 


284  CAMELIA    BICCAEDO 

explain.  He  and  Raphael  had  packed  the  debris 
of  the  old  stall  into  the  wagon  and  carried  it 
away,  before  day. 

The  sudden  appearance  of  a  marble  front  on 
Fifth  Avenue  would  hardly  cause  more  conster 
nation  in  the  world  of  fashion  than  did  Dago 
'Manuel's  new  fruit-stand  in  the  body  social  of 
the  French  Market  on  that  memorable  morning. 
The  sausage-women  tapped  each  other  on  the 
shoulders  and  whispered.  The  butchers  walked 
around  it,  examined,  criticised,  and  laughed,  but 
all  acknowledged  that  it  was  "  Dog-gone  poody  !" 
If  they  were  astonished  at  the  sudden  erection 
of  the  structure,  they  were  utterly  confounded 
the  next  morning,  when  its  shelves  were  tastily 
decorated  with  evergreens  and  furnished  with 
fruits,  and  a  pretty  girl  took  her  place  before  it, 
and  began  singing  in  her  soft  Italian  voice, 
"  Cheap-a  banana  !  'S-a  very  nize  apple  !"  over 
and  over  again. 

Buyers  were  attracted,  as  well  as  neighboring 
competitors ;  and  the  little  saleswoman,  and 
'Manuel,  who  had  appeared  during  the  morning, 
were  both  kept  busy  until  the  bell  rang  for  clos 
ing. 

Day  after  day  'Manuel  and  his  pretty  clerk 
came,  and  the  business  grew.  'Manuel  was  polite 
to  Camelia  always,  but  he  was  too  busy  now  for 
much  neighborly  courtesy.  He  had  introduced 
the  "  young  lady  "  as  "  Miss  Marie  Cantero,"  his 
"  saleslady,"  but  had  vouchsafed  to  no  one,  not 


CAMELIA   RICCARDO  285 

even  to  Camelia,  any  explanation  further  than 
this — and  she  was  too  proud  to  ask  him.  As 
time  went  on,  the  rival  beauty  continued  to  at 
tract,  and  Camelia  had  to  share  her  patronage 
with  her.  If  business  waned,  Marie  introduced 
some  new  attraction.  Now,  it  was  a  loud-talking 
parrot  that  cried  "  Cheap-a  banana !"  while  every 
body  stopped  and  laughed  and  bought.  Now, 
Marie  herself  appeared  in  a  dazzling  new  cos 
tume,  while  her  laughter  was  loud  and  conta 
gious,  and  her  use  of  slang  rather  remarkable.  At 
the  end  of  three  months,  the  canopied  stall  did 
the  principal  business  in  the  market,  and  'Manuel 
rented  neighboring  stands  and  kept  them  all 
busy. 

When  a  year  had  passed  'Manuel  was  still 
prospering.  During  this  time  Camelia  had  had 
many  suitors,  who  loved  her  for  her  beauty,  but 
each  one  had  gone  away  with  his  head  down. 
Fran9ois  had  repeated  his  offer  of  himself  and  his 
money  several  times,  but  at  length  the  strange 
truth  was  forced  upon  him  that  she  would  not 
accept  him.  He  called  her  a  "  crezzy  lill  fool " 
for  thus  standing  in  her  own  light,  but  all  his 
arts  failed  to  effect  a  change  in  her  mind  ;  and 
he  realized  at  last  that  he  was  finally  rejected. 

Of  course,  he  went  and  talked  with  her  some 
times  still,  to  keep  up  appearances  ;  and,  when 
teased  about  her,  he  deported  himself  as  became 
a  man  of  the  world. 

"  Oh-h  !  Camelia  ees  one  nize  lill  Dago  gal,  an' 


286  CAMELIA    RICCABDO 

good -lookin',  yas — lud"  with  a  shrug  of  his 
manly  shoulders,  "me,  I  don'  wan'  marry  one 
Dago.  I  'ave  a  lill  pleasure  talk  wid  'er  —  daz 
all !" 

And  then,  to  emphasize  his  position,  he  would 
add  :  "  'Spose  me,  I  was  marry  wid  'er,  and  dad 
one-eye  Dago  pass  by  my  'ouse,  sing  oud, 
*  Swee'  po-ta-ders,  ten-cen'-a-buck-e-e-e-t !'  Yi,  yi ! 
You  could  knock  me  down  with  a  fedder  !  Oh 
yas,  Camelia  's  one  nize  lill  gal,  an'  poody  !  poody 
ligue  magnolias  !  But  no,  no  !  Me,  I  don'  wan' 
marry  dad  fodder-in-law." 

In  this  wise  Fran9ois  set  himself  right  with 
the  market  gossips,  saved  the  imperilled  dignity 
of  the  Leboeufs,  and  —  handled  Camelia's  name 
like  a  gentleman.  , 

'Manuel  in  the  meantime  was  making  money. 
He  had  never  visited  Camelia  in  her  home.  Be 
fore  the  day  of  his  inspiration,  he  had  loved  her 
hopelessly,  as  one  might  become  enamoured  of  a 
particular  star,  knowing  that  he  might  never 
reach  it,  and  it  would  not  descend  to  him.  Since 
his  awakening  he  had  been  absorbed  with  his  one 
object — making  money  enough  to  become  eligi 
ble  to  her  under  the  imposed  condition. 

It  had  never  occurred  to  him  to  doubt  her,  nor 
yet  to  nourish  her  preference  with  endearing  at 
tentions.  The  charmed  words  she  had  spoken 
had  not  been  all  sweet.  There  was  a  bitterness 
not  to  be  ignored  in  their  underlying  implication 
of  his  unworthiness. 


CAMELIA   RICCARDO  287 

He  would  not  go  to  her  again  until  every 
vestige  of  sloth  should  have  fallen  from  him,  and 
he  could  approach  her  clad  in  the  trig,  smart 
garments  of  success — until  he  could  offer  her  as 
much  money  as  "  thad  sassy  Gascon  "  had  dared 
offer  her. 

Whatever  pleasure  Camelia  might  have  felt  in 
his  prosperity  was  utterly  spoiled  by  jealousy  of 
his  pretty  clerk.  It  was  plain  that  'Manuel  was 
in  love  with  her.  Did  they  not  sit  together 
every  day — on  the  same  lemon-box — and  count 
over  the  receipts  of  the  morning  ?  He  was  even 
seen  once  to  pin  her  overskirt  for  her  !  Of  course, 
he  was  in  love  with  her  ;  else  why  should  he  pin 
her  overskirt  ?  And  the  bold  little  thing  had  gig 
gled  all  the  time  he  was  pinning  it !  What  was 
'Manuel  thinking  about,  to  fancy  such  a  creature  ? 

Such  as  these  were  Camelia's  unspoken  thoughts, 
but  she  never  by  one  word  criticised  Marie.  Not 
she.  She  would  not  "give  herself  away"  after 
that  fashion.  She  would  wear  a  bright  face,  flirt 
with  every  new-comer,  and  keep  on  good  terms 
with  Marie — if  it  killed  her  ! 

Time  passed.  It  was  Christmas  night.  Camelia 
sat  alone  on  her  father's  door-step.  The  day  had 
been  a  long  and  trying  one  to  her.  Marie  had 
carried  everything  before  her  all  the  morning  in 
the  market.  The  children  at  home,  sticky  with 
Christmas  sweets  and  boisterous  with  holiday 
license,  had  finally  succumbed  to  fretful  sleepi 
ness  and  gone  off  to  bed.  And  Camelia  herself 


288  CAMELIA    RICCARDO 

felt  so  weary.  The  city  about  her,  in  its  unu 
sual  quiet — its  stillness  exaggerated  by  contrast, 
from  following  upon  a  hilarious  Christmas-eve — 
seemed  to  be  sinking  into  the  heavy  stupor  of 
satiety.  It  was  falling  into  a  drunken  sleep. 
Nobody  came  to  buy.  There  was  no  sound  save 
of  the  drowsy  diminishing  motion  of  the  rocker 
in  which  her  mother  nodded,  and  her  father's 
half-drunken  snore.  She  thought  Christmas  was 
the  worst  day,  the  longest  day,  in  the  whole 
year.  Her  hands  lay  idly  in  her  lap,  and  she  fell 
into  the  universal  habit  of  holiday  retrospection. 

How  certain  crises  in  our  lives  come  back  to 
us  at  Christmas  !  And  we  smile,  and  shudder  oft- 
times,  too,  as  we  realize  how  unconsciously  we 
met  them.  How  the  retrospection  dignifies  the 
commonplace  things  of  life  !  How  it  makes  us 
quail  in  contemplation  of  the  awful  possibilities 
of  each  passing  hour,  every  trivial  event!  We 
laugh  in  our  hearts,  too,  as  we  remember  how 
we  agonized  over  this  or  that  trifle  —  the  trifle 
perpetuated  in  memory  only  by  the  agony  that 
impressed  it  there  —  the  trifle  marked  now  only 
by  a  tear-stain.  And  how  strangely  interspersed 
are  these  tear-stains  !  In  the  wrong  places  !  "Ah, 
me !"  we  say — do  we  not,  every  one  of  us? — with 
the  Amens  to  our  Christmas  communings  with 
self?  And  we  mean—?  That  depends.  There  is 
a  terrible  vagueness  in  this  voicing  of  a  sigh.  If 
the  sigh  go  upward,  the  heart  is  better  for  the 
aspiration.  Between  the  "ah"  and  the  "me" 


CAMELIA    BICCARDO  289 

there  is,  mayhap,  a  prayer — a  renewed  consecra 
tion  of  self — a  reaching  after  the  best,  the  real 
things  of  life. 

"Ah,  me!"  said  little  Camelia,  sitting  in  the 
dimly -lighted  doorway  to-night.  There  was  a 
pathos  in  the  very  mildness  of  the  ejaculation, 
for  Camelia  did  not  hesitate  at  profanity,  on  oc 
casion.  Not  that  she  swore.  "  CussV  an'  swear- 
in*  "  she  regarded  as  a  strictly  masculine  preroga 
tive  ;  but  she  ran  the  gamut  of  mild  irreverence 
twenty  times  a  day,  introducing  the  devil  into 
the  society  of  the  saints  and  the  Deity  on  the 
faintest  provocation  —  the  disputed  price  of  an 
orange,  or  a  torn  armhole — the  result  of  a  tip 
toed  reach  for  a  preferred  pineapple. 

There  was  no  passion  in  the  laconic  "Ah,  me !" 
— her  only  words  to-night.  It  was  but  a  pathetic 
confession  of  weariness,  of  helpless  regret.  She 
simply  knew  that  she  was  miserable  and  lonely, 
and  that  the  light  had  gone  out  of  her  life.  She 
longed  for  bed-time  and  sleep  and  forgetfulness — 
for  escape  from  intrusive  memories  of  recent  hu 
miliations.  The  review  of  the  year  had  been  a  sad 
picture  of  her  defeat — and  Marie  was  the  victor. 

The  little  clock  in  the  back  room  struck  eight 
— only  eight,  and  the  evening  had  been  so  long  ! 
At  eight  o'clock  last  Christmas,  where  had  she 
been  ?  This  and  that  had  happened — and  so  the 
year  began  again  to  pass  before  her. 

A  firm  step  on  the  banquette  startled  her.  It 
was  'Manuel.  He  had  stopped,  spoken,  and  seated 
19 


S90  CAMELIA    KICCAKDO 

himself  at  her  side  ere  she  could  recover  herself 
enough  to  speak. 

How  slender  and  handsome  he  looked  in  his 
closely-fitting  store- clothes  !  Camelia  had  never 
seen  him  before  in  other  than  his  market  dress. 
He  was  actually  resplendent  to-night.  And  when 
he  bent  his  head  close  to  her,  and  told  her  in  seri 
ous  way  that,  having  fulfilled  the  conditions,  he 
had  come  to  claim  the  promised  hand,  she  could 
not  find  voice  to  answer  him.  All  things  were 
changed.  The  wretchedness  of  the  last  hour  re 
ceded  suddenly  into  the  dim  past.  It  might  have 
been  a  year  ago. 

While  she  only  looked  into  his  face  and  said 
nothing,  'Manuel  went  on  talking.  He  spoke  in 
Italian;  told  her  the  story  of  his  struggle, his  wait 
ing,  his  success,  and  how,  through  it  all,  he  had 
thought  only  of  her. 

And  now,  he  had  come  to  claim  her.  He  looked 
into  her  eyes  and  awaited  her  answer.  She  had 
had  time  to  compose  herself  a  little,  and  Marie's 
face  had  risen  up  before  her.  Her  heart  seemed 
turned  to  ice.  Instead  of  replying  to  his  question, 
she  asked  frigidly — as  always,  speaking  English. 

"For-a  w'ad  ees  Marie  sen'  you  off?" 

«  Oh-h-h  !  Wad  you  talk  ligue  thad,  Camelia  ? 
Marie — tut,  tut,  tut !"  And  he  burst  out  laugh 
ing.  He  seemed  more  amused  than  disturbed  by 
this  unforeseen  difficulty. 

"Marie  ees-a  hV  to  me.  Get  fif-a-teen  dollar 
de  mont,"  he  continued.  "Never  seen  Marie  Jn 


CAMELIA    RICCABDO  291 

my  life-a,  on'y  in- a  market,"  and  now  he  drifted 
seriously  into  Italian  again. 

He  talked  for  an  hour,  and  when  he  rose  to  go 
he  held  her  hand  and  something  glistened  on  her 
finger. 

It  was  a  gold  ring,  and  its  pattern  was  of  two 
hands  clasped.  He  had  said  a  sweet,  pretty  thing 
about  the  appropriateness  of  the  design,  when  he 
placed  the  ring  on  her  finger,  and  Camelia  thought 
it  the  most  beautiful  speech  she  had  ever  heard. 
If  she  had  known  the  word,  she  would  have  called 
'Manuel  a  poet. 

She  sat  and  watched  his  slender  receding  figure 
until  it  disappeared  in  the  shadows.  And  then 
she  looked  down  at  her  hand ;  'Manuel  had  kissed 
it  when  he  put  the  ring  upon  it.  Raising  it  now 
to  her  face,  she  laid  the  spot,  still  conscious  of  the 
touch  of  his  lips,  against  her  cheek,  and  blushed 
by  herself  on  the  doorstep. 

And  this  was  Christmas  !  Surely  Christmas 
was  the  happiest  day  in  all  the  year  ! 

In  a  month  they  were  married.  The  engage 
ment  was  made  no  secret  from  the  first,  and 
everybody  seemed  pleased.  Marie,  indeed,  ap 
peared  quite  delighted ;  but  Camelia,  remember 
ing  her  own  sorrow,  felt  sure  she  laughed  to 
hide  a  heavy  heart.  Francois  was  most  gushing 
and  profuse  in  congratulations,  and  sent,  with  his 
card  attached  by  a  broad  white  satin  ribbon,  the 
handsomest  of  all  the  bridal  presents  —  a  deco« 


292  C AMELIA    RICCARDO 

rated  liqueur  set,  mounted  in  silver  plate,  with  a 
bottle  of  anisette  to  drink  the  bride's  health. 

Frangois,  by  the  way,  was  married,  three  days 
before  Camelia's  wedding,  to  his  second  cousin, 
living  "down  in  the  Third."  They  were  married 
in  the  Cathedral  before  the  high  altar,  and  had 
six  bridesmaids,  "  every  wan  pritty  ligue  wan 
pink,  and  every  wan  my  corzen !"  Fran§ois  re 
marked  afterwards. 

Camelia's  wedding,  on  the  contrary,  was  con 
ducted  according  to  her  own  ideas,  on  economical 
principles.  But  'Manuel  spent  money  in  presents 
without  stint.  In  addition  to  the  wedding  outfit, 
which  was  his  gift,  he  presented  his  bride  with  a 
"full  set  of  jewelry,"  even  including  watch  and 
chain — a  gorgeous  opera-chain  with  golden  tassels 
— and  every  piece  was  set  with  an  amethyst. 

Old  Nick,  Camelia's  father,  shed  real  tears  from 
his  good  eye  when  she  left  home,  but  he  congrat 
ulated  himself  on  gaining  so  progressive  a  son-in- 
law.  'Manuel  took  Camelia  to  a  little  home  of 
her  own,  not  a  shop,  but  a  neat  little  cottage,  one 
side  of  which  was  rented,  and  brought  in  money 
every  month. 

Was  she  happy?  Look  into  her  face  on  this 
first  day,  when,  having  strolled  several  times 
through  the  four  rooms  of  her  new  home,  she 
at  last  seats  herself  in  a  little  rocking-chair  and 
tries  to  realize  things.  She  has  drawn  her  rocker 
into  the  small  chamber  next  her  own — this  is  to 
be  Raphael's  room — and  her  seat  here  between 


CAMELIA   RICCABDO  293 

the  doors  commands  a  view  both  ways,  back  and 
front.  She  sees  the  kitchen  shelves  behind  the 
shining  new  stove,  and  thinks  how  ornamental 
they  will  be,  with  coverings  of  embroidered  pa 
per  and  new  tin  furnishings.  She  is  so  glad  that 
they  will  show  all  the  way  from  the  parlor.  The 
gorgeousness  of  her  own  bedchamber  quite  intox 
icates  her  with  delight.  She  has  turned  her  chair 
so  that,  whenever  in  repose,  her  eyes  fall  upon 
the  Victoria  bed.  It  is  this  imposing  structure, 
with  upholstered  scarlet  canopy,  red-tasselled  mos 
quito-bar,  and  lace-covered  pillows,  that  dignifies 
the  whole  house.  And  the  fringed,  red-bordered 
towels  on  the  towel-rack  look  so  assertively  aris 
tocratic.  How  superior  to  the  roller- towel  and 
tin  basin  of  her  father's  house  !  And  it  is  all 
hers,  and  'Manuel  is  hers,  and  she  is  'Manuel's  ! 

Presently,  her  attention,  satisfied  with  contem 
plation  of  the  other  apartments,  fell  upon  the  lit 
tle  room  in  which  she  sat.  The  arrangement  of 
the  furniture  here  did  not  suit  her.  As  she  re 
garded  it,  she  hummed  a  tune  and  rocked  her 
self  briskly  back  and  forth,  keeping  time  to  the 
merry  air  with  the  rocking  of  her  chair.  Here 
was  a  bureau  in  a  dark  recess,  with  no  light  on 
its  mirror,  and  a  bed  in  a  close  corner  opposite  a 
window,  so  that  its  occupant  would  get  plenty  of 
light  full  in  his  face.  How  little  men  knew  about 
arranging  a  house !  The  plan  for  a  better  distri 
bution  of  the  furniture  came  to  her.  It  came  first 
as  a  suggestion  to  her  mind,  and  then  seemed  to 


294  CAMELIA   EICCAKDO 

pass  quickly  down  through  her  arms  into  her 
hands.  Her  fingers  fairly  tingled  to  effect, the 
improved  arrangement.  She  quickened  her  tune 
and  the  motion  of  her  chair.  Finally,  the  wom 
an's  instinct  conquered.  Rising  hastily  from  her 
chair,  she  peeped  out  to  see  where  'Manuel  and 
Raphael  were.  They  sat  with  her  father,  who 
had  escorted  them  home,  on  the  front  steps,  talk 
ing  (for  this  January  had  borrowed  a  day  from 
June  for  Camelia's  wedding),  and  she  saw  that 
their  cigars  were  just  lighted.  She  would  have 
plenty  of  time  to  make  the  desired  change  before 
the  smoking  should  be  over.  It  would  not  do  for 
'Manuel  to  discover  her  moving  furniture  on  this 
first  day.  She  would  be  ashamed — she  had  felt 
strangely  shy  even  when  she  had  walked  through 
the  house  with  him — but  after  it  should  be  done 
she  would  not  care,  the  improvement  would  be  so 
apparent. 

Taking  the  little  bureau  by  its  high  shoulders, 
she  moved  it  easily  on  its  porcelain  rollers.  She 
laughed  to  herself  as  she  pushed  it  up  beside  the 
window,  and  the  little  mirror,  reflecting  her  own 
face,  laughed  back  at  her  —  even  threw  up  its 
head  and  laughed  as  it  tilted  backward.  She 
gave  the  bed  a  gentle  pull  now.  It  protested 
with  a  noisy  creak,  and  Camelia  went  and  closed 
the  door.  Returning  now,  she  pulled  and  tugged 
at  the  cumbersome  four-poster  until,  having  got 
ten  it  out  of  its  corner,  she  could  step  behind  it 
She  would  push  it  out ;  it  would  be  easier. 


CAMELIA    RICCABDO  295 

Just  as  she  was  throwing  her  weight  against 
the  bed,  she  happened  to  look  up  and  saw  that  the 
mosquito -netting  had  caught  against  the  wall. 
On  disentangling  it,  she  bared,  not  a  nail,  as  she 
had  suspected,  but  a  porcelain  knob.  Here  was  a 
door.  It  must  lead  to  a  closet — a  shelved  closet, 
no  doubt — the  joy  of  every  housewife's  heart — and 
'Manuel  had  not  shown  it  to  her  !  It  was  to  be  a 
surprise  !  She  would  look  in  !  She  did  look  in. 
Horrors !  What  was  this  ?  Hanging  all  around,  on 
pegs  against  the  wall,  were  Marie  Cantero's  clothes! 
She  knew  them  all.  Here  were  dresses,  aprons, 
slippers — even  that  hateful  overskirt !  She  grew 
dizzy.  What  did  it  all  mean  ?  'Manuel  had  told 
her  that  he  had  never  seen  Marie  excepting  in  the 
market.  Had  'Manuel  lied  to  her?  Poor  little 
Camelia  !  She  had  found  a  skeleton  in  her  closet 
on  her  wedding-day !  Pressing  her  hands  to  her 
head,  she  leaned  heavily  against  the  side  of  the 
door.  A  sound  startled  her.  She  thought  it  was 
a  footstep.  What  if  'Manuel  should  come  now  ? 
It  would  never  do.  Hurrying  on  tiptoe  to  the 
door,  she  turned  the  key,  and,  returning,  closed 
the  closet  door,  and  with  nervous  strength  pushed 
the  bed  back  where  she  had  found  it. 

The  face  in  the  little  mirror  looked  at  her  sor 
rowfully  as  she  moved  the  bureau  into  its  old 
place,  and,  rocking  forward,  it  fell,  like  a  bowed 
head,  crestfallen.  Cautiously  unlocking  the  door, 
and  glancing  backward  to  assure  herself  that 
everything  was  just  as  she  had  found  it,  she  left 


296  CAMELIA    RICCARDO 

the  room  with  a  shudder,  as  if  it  held  a  corpse,  and 
went  back  into  the  kitchen. 

'Manuel's  parrot,  perched  on  top  of  the  safe, 
flapped  her  wings  as  Camelia  entered,  and  cried, 
keeping  her  whole  vocabulary  thus  in  practice, 
"  Cheap-a  banana  !"  It  seemed  an  insult,  so  close 
ly  was  the  bird  associated  with  Marie. 

"  Shut  yo'  mouth-a,  you  fool !"  she  exclaimed 
resentfully,  as  she  hurriedly  left  the  kitchen  and 
sought  her  own  room.  Drawing  her  chair  to  the 
side  window  here,  she  sat  down  to  collect  her  scat 
tered  senses.  How  her  temples  throbbed  !  If  she 
could  only  have  escaped  to  weep,  it  would  have 
been  a  relief  ;  but  this  was  impossible.  She  would 
keep  a  cheerful  face,  for  her  own  dignity's  sake, 
but  how  long  the  day  seemed! 

In  the  weeks  that  followed,  a  vague,  restless 
doubting  seemed  ever  present  with  her.  She 
almost  doubted  the  sincerity  of  'Manuel's  devo 
tion  and  its  permanence.  The  secret  of  the  closet, 
like  a  Jack-in-the-box,  seemed  ever  threatening  to 
spring  out  at  her,  and  she  found  herself  growing 
nervous  when  she  passed  the  door,  or  the  place 
where  she  knew  it  was,  for  the  bed  concealed  it. 
This  had,  no  doubt,  been  the  object  of  the  arrange 
ment.  She  saw  little  of  Raphael.  'Manuel  had 
put  him  into  the  market  and  kept  him  busy  all 
day,  and  so  he  went  early  and  came  late.  She 
had  tried  once  to  ask  him  something  about  Marie, 
but  he  evaded  an  answer,  she  thought,  with  some 
embarrassment,  and  then  she  went  into  her  own 


CAMELIA    BICCABDO  297 

room  and  wept.  Why  were  Raphael  and  'Manuel 
conspiring  to  deceive  her  about  this  girl — this 
brazen  girl  whose  odious  finery  was  concealed  in 
her  house  ? 

One  day,  when  Raphael  and  'Manuel  were  both 
away,  she  locked  both  doors  of  Raphael's  room 
and  peeped  again  into  the  little  closet.  The 
clothing  hung  as  on  the  first  day. 

In  a  few  days  she  went  again.  One  suit  was 
gone!  She  grew  faint,  and  grasped  the  side  of 
the  door  for  support.  Marie  had  been  there  ! 
She  must  have  come  during  the  night  and  taken  it. 
Here  was  further  mystery.  She  had  been  troubled 
before ;  now  she  was  injured,  indignant,  outraged  ! 
She  had  come  to  feel  almost  comfortable  about 
the  affair,  and  had  persuaded  herself  that  there 
was  some  simple  explanation  of  the  presence  of 
the  dresses.  She  would  even  have  asked  about  it, 
had  not  pride  sealed  her  lips. 

Such  as  these  were  her  thoughts  now.  In  truth, 
she  had  never  for  one  moment  been  satisfied. 
The  closet  and  its  secret  had  always  been  a  horror 
to  her.  But  the  uncertainty  of  the  past  was  as 
joy  to  the  wretchedness  of  the  present  moment, 
for  now  she  was  desperate.  Slamming  the  door 
so  that  the  house  shook,  she  went  into  her  own 
room.  She  was  too  angry  to  weep,  too  nervous 
to  work. 

After  moving  about  the  house  abstractedly  for 
an  hour,  now  mechanically  arranging  the  articles 
on  her  toilet,  now  standing  at  the  open  window^ 


298  CAMELIA    KICCAKDO 

gazing  vacantly  into  space,  she  suddenly  started,  as 
by  a  fresh  impulse,  back  into  the  closeted  chamber. 
The  slammed  door  swung  open,  revealing  the 
hanging  garments.  She  had  resolved  to  take  the 
matter  into  her  own  hands,  which  she  did  literally 
now,  gathering  the  dresses  into  a  bundle  and 
carrying  them  into  the  kitchen.  She  glanced  at 
the  clock.  It  was  not  yet  noon  by  an  hour,  and 
Raphael  and  'Manuel  would  not  be  home  for  din 
ner  before  nearly  one  o'clock.  She  would  end 
this  wretched  business  now — forever !  When 
Miss  Marie  Cantero  should  sneak  into  her  house 
again,  she  could  whistle  for  her  finery  !  Opening 
the  stove-door,  she  started  the  fire  with  a  handful 
of  shavings,  and  first  into  the  flame  put  a  muslin 
overskirt.  She  laughed  aloud  as  the  flame  burst 
into  fresh  life  over  the  combustible  fabric  ;  and 
she  laughed  again  as  she  thought  of  Marie's  con 
sternation  when  she  should  come  for  her  things 
and  find  them  all  gone. 

What  would  she  do  ?  Would  she  have  the  face 
to  inquire  about  them  ?  If  Marie  should,  what 
would  she  herself  do  ?  She  would  shrug  her 
shoulders  and  say  she  knew  nothing  about  it. 
Why  should  she  know  ?  Nobody  had  told  her. 
But  Marie  wouldn't  ask  her — she  wouldn't  dare  ! 
This  would  end  the  whole  hateful  affair — forever  ! 
It  would  be  neatly  and  quietly  settled  ! 

She  laughed  a  laugh  of  self-gratulation  as,  open 
ing  the  stove-door  again,  she  thrust  upon  the 
waning  flame  a  gaudy,  lace-covered  skirt.  The 


CAMELIA    RICCARDO  299 

eagerness  with  which  the  blaze  seized  upon  the 
flimsy  finery  seemed  in  sympathy  with  her  own 
passion.  Its  fiery  espousal  of  her  cause  soothed 
her.  The  stove  was  her  friend.  The  voice  which 
roared  through  its  narrow  pipe  was  the  voice  of 
triumph,  of  exultation.  It  was  the  counterpart 
of  her  own  laughter,  and  when  it  would  have 
subsided,  the  gray  ashes  in  the  grate  should  not  be 
more  tenacious  of  their  secret  than  she.  She  had 
found  companionship  in  the  little  stove  before, 
during  the  long  days  when  'Manuel  was  away. 
The  secrets  involved  in  the  preparation  of  sundry 
new  dishes — dishes  which  'Manuel  had  praised — 
were  they  not  all  between  her  and  her  little 
friend  of  the  plastic  temper  ? 

Camelia  was  not  capable  of  analysis,  but  she 
was  conscious  of  the  charm  of  companionship 
which  came  from  the  personality  with  which  she 
had  unconsciously  invested  the  little  stove.  And 
now,  as  she  fed  it  with  the  only  available  and 
tangible  elements  of  her  distress,  it  seemed,  in  its 
greedy  consumption  of  the  novel  fuel,  in  its  hi 
larious  demonstration  of  delight,  to  have  followed 
her  into  the  realm  of  passion.  The  consciousness 
of  sympathy  soothed  her  spirit,  as  the  genial 
warmth  did  her  body. 

Presently  the  fire  subsided.  Camelia  glanced 
at  the  chair  on  which  she  had  thrown  the  cloth 
ing.  A  single  dress  remained.  She  held  this 
garment  up  before  her.  She  would  prolong  the 
joy  of  its  destruction  by  a  last  lingering  inspec' 


300  CAMEUA   BICCABDO 

tion.  How  it  recalled  special  days  of  Marie's 
triumph!  How  vulgarly  she  had  flaunted  the 
gaudy  flouncings  of  the  skirt !  And  'Manuel  had 
tolerated  her — liked  her — even  now  held  a  secret 
about  her  ! 

There  were  bright-red  spots  on  Camelia's  cheeks 
as  she  opened  the  stove-door,  and  as  she  looked 
in,  she  saw  that  there  were  bright-red  coals  with 
in  its  grate.  She  would  lay  this  last  garment, 
which  seemed  an  embodied  indignity,  upon  the 
ardent  bosom  of  her  friend,  who  would  quickly 
avenge  it,  and  then  they  would  laugh  together, 
she  and  the  little  stove. 

Catching  the  edge  of  a  flounce  with  a  toasting- 
fork,  she  had  leaned  forward  to  thrust  it  into  the 
fire,  when  a  step  startled  her.  The  door  had 
opened  before  she  turned,  and  'Manuel  and  Ra 
phael  walked  in. 

'Manuel  regarded  her  in  questioning  astonish 
ment,  but  she  met  his  glance  defiantly.  He  was 
frightened.  He  had  never  seen  such  a  look  in 
his  wife's  face  before,  and  he  did  not  in  the  least 
understand  it.  He  was  first  to  speak.  He  ap 
proached  her  gently.  "  Wa's  the  mather  weeth-a 
my  lill-a  wife  ?" 

His  tenderness  was  more  than  she  could  stand. 
She  resented  it  as  an  insult  in  the  face  of  her 
wrongs.  The  fountains  of  her  wrath,  long  pent 
up,  now  burst  forth  in  a  deluge  of  violent  abuse. 
She  had  endured  much,  and  was  proceeding 
decently  and  quietly  to  dispose  of  the  whole 


CAMELIA    KICCARDO  301 

affair,  but  —  she  was  caught,  and  she  didn't  care. 
She  charged  both  'Manuel  and  Raphael  with  de 
ception,  conspiracy,  insult  ;  told  them  that  she 
had  known  it  from  the  first,  and  had  put  up  with 
everything  until  the  girl  had  had  the  impudence 
to  sneak  into  her  own  house,  and  now  she  had 
sworn  she  wouldn't  stand  it  a  day  longer  —  no,  she 
wouldn't  !  Finally,  however,  her  anger  spent 
itself,  and  she  fell  to  weeping. 

The  truth  of  the  situation  slowly  revealed 
itself  to  'Manuel.  He  had  been  strangely  obtuse, 
but  he  saw  it  all  now,  and  he  was  greatly  troubled. 
Beckoning  to  the  boy  to  follow,  he  left  the  room. 
There  were  but  a  few  words  of  conversation 
between  the  two,  and  'Manuel's  attitude  was  that 
of  entreaty.  In  a  moment  both  returned  to  the 
kitchen,  and  Raphael,  taking  up  the  dress  from 
the  floor  where  Camelia  had  dropped  it,  and 
gathering  slippers,  stockings,  and  ribbons  that 
lay  strewn  around,  disappeared  with  them  through 
his  room  into  the  little  closet.  Camelia,  with  her 
head  buried  in  her  arms  over  the  table,  saw  noth 
ing  of  this. 

'Manuel  approached  his  wife  now,  and,  taking 
her  arm,  gently,  but  firmly,  raised  her  up. 

"Come,  Camelia,"  said  he.  "Been-a  mague 
wan  beeg  miztague  !  'S  all  righd  now."  Camelia 
resisted  moodily,  and  he  added,  "  Can'd  you  truz-a 


His  voice  was  so  troubled,  so  tender,  that  it 
moved  her,  and  she  suffered  him  to  lead  her,  sob- 


302  CAMELIA    KICCAKDO 

bing  afresh,  into  Raphael's  room.  He  led  her  to 
a  chair,  and,  stepping  to  the  closet  door,  rapped 
impatiently. 

"  Say  !  Hoary  up  in-a  tha  !"  said  he. 

In  a  moment  the  door  opened.  Camelia  looked 
up.  A  quick  scream  escaped  her,  as  Miss  Marie 
Cantero,  in  all  her  glory,  emerged  from  the  closet. 

"'Ave-a  cha',"  said  'Manuel,  indicating  a  seat 
opposite  Camelia. 

Turning  to  her  now,  he  said,  "Tague  wan- a 
good  loog,  Camelia.  Never  's  goin'-a  see  Miss 
Marie  no  mo'." 

That  young  lady  now  rose,  took  from  her  head 
hat,  ribbon,  net,  and  one  by  one  the  feminine 
garments  fell  to  the  floor,  and  Raphael,  in  long 
breeches  and  flannel  shirt,  stood  before  her.  The 
boy  laughed  nervously,  but  Camelia  was  too  much 
wrought  up  for  laughter — yet.  She  was  humil 
iated  beyond  expression.  She  looked  reproach 
fully  at  her  husband. 

"  For-a  w'ad  ees-a  you  neva  was-a  tell  me  biffo*, 
'Manuel"  said  she. 

"  'Ad  'o  prormize  ^Raphael  neva  was  a  goirf-a 
tell-a  nobody!  Neva  thoughd-a  my  lill-a  wife 
was  afrai'  trus'-a  me  !" 

He  spoke  sorrowfully.  There  was  a  pathos  in 
his  gentleness.  Camelia  felt  it.  She'  might  even 
apologize  for  her  mistrust  some  time,  but  she  had 
not  the  grace  to  do  it  now.  She  preferred  a 
lateral  retreat  through  a  change  of  subject. 
With  childish  diplomacy,  she  asked, 


CJLMELIA    EICCARDO  303 

"For-a  w'ad  ees  you  an'  Raphael  come-a  so 
soon  to-day,  'Maimed  f  'S  nod  leb'n  o'clog  yed  !" 

'Manuel  held  his  open  watch  to  her.  It  was 
nearly  one,  though  the  little  clock  on  the  shelf 
said  "  five  minutes  before  eleven."  It  had  stopped 
there  when  Camelia  shook  the  house,  slamming 
the  closet  door. 

Marie  had  never  appeared  in  the  market  after 
'Manuel's  wedding-day,  for  Raphael's  contract 
ended  then. 

When  'Manuel  had  resolved  to  bestir  himself,  the 
main  difficulty  in  the  competition  with  Camelia  in 
making  money  seemed  to  lie  in  her  superior  at 
tractiveness  over  himself.  He  would  not  have  had 
this  otherwise,  but  just  now — in  a  business  sense 
— it  was  in  his  way.  While  at  home,  working  on 
his  stall,  he  had  expressed  his  difficulty  to  Raphael 
in  this  wise  :  "  Nobody's  a  goin'-a  stop-a  buy  some- 
a-theen  from  wan-a  orgly  man,  when  wan-a  pritty 
lill-a  gal  ligue  Camelia's  a  sell-a  close  by  eem." 

This  led  to  the  wish  for  a  pretty  clerk — some 
shrewd,  bright  girl  who  might  beat  Camelia 
at  her  own  game.  It  was  then  that  'Manuel 
conceived  the  idea  of  Raphael's  assuming  the 
disguise.  It  would  be  just  the  thing.  Raphael 
had  beauty,  wit,  and  experience,  and  the  plan 
would  steer  clear  of  the  embarrassment  of  deal 
ing  with  a  strange  girl.  'Manuel  offered  good 
pay  and  swore  secrecy,  but  he  had  to  beg  and 
bribe  a  long  time  before  the  boy  would  consent. 

The  market  people  never  knew  what  became 


304  CAMELIA    RICCABDO 

of  Marie.  Some  said  that  she  had  committed 
suicide  in  a  fit  of  jealousy  on  'Manuel's  wedding- 
day,  and  Raphael  was  so  pleased  with  this  solu 
tion  that  he  carried  a  suit  of  his  discarded  cloth 
ing  and  left  it  one  night  under  the  wharf  at  the 
river's  edge.  This  was  the  dress  Camelia  had 
missed  from  the  closet.  Some  one  must  have 
stolen  it,  for  Raphael  never  heard  of  it,  and  when 
he  went  to  look  for  it,  it  was  gone. 


THE  WOMAN'S   EXCHANGE  OF 
SIMPKINSVILLE 


THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE  OF  SIMP- 
KUSTSYILLE 

'VE  been  kissed  once-t — with  a  reg'lar  beau 
kiss— by  Teddy  Brooks." 

The  puffs  of  smoke  from  old  lady  Sarey  Mi- 
randy  Simpkins's  pipe  came  faster  after  she  had 
spoken. 

"  But  I  never  kissed  back.  Hev  you  ever  been 
kissed  that-a-way,  'th  a  reg'lar  beau  kiss,  Sis  So 
phia  Falena  ?"  she  continued,  turning  toward  her 
sister,  who  sat,  also  smoking,  beside  her. 

"  Twice-t." 

"Who  by?" 

"  Once-t  by  Jim  Halloway,  time  he  spoken  the 
word  fo'  me  to  marry  'im,  an' — an'  by  another 
person  for  a  far'well." 

"An'  you  kep'  two  all  these  years  an'  never 
told  'em  out,  an'  here  I  felt  guilty  a-hidin'  one. 
Who  was  that  various  secon'  smarty  what  done 
it  to  you,  Sis  ?" 

"  He  weren't  no  smarty,  Sarey  Mirandy.  He 
were  Jim  Dooley,  an'  it  were  time  he  'listed  in 
the  army." 

"  Did  you  kiss  back,  Sophia  Falena  ?" 

"  Yas—I—did!" 


308  THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE 

"  I  'lowed  as  much.  You  was  jest  the  samplin' 
sort  o'  young  one  to  tas'e  any  new-fangled  eatin's 
that  was  passed  'round.  Ricollec'  time  you  tas'e 
the  bull-frog  Tom  Andrews  kilt  an'  cooked,  an'  I 
gagged  jest  a-lookin'at  you  ?" 

The  old  lady,  Sarey  Mirandy,  chuckled  at  the 
memory. 

"Yas,  I  ricollec'.  An'  I  ricollec'  how  I  allus 
eaten  some  o'  po'  ol'  Mammy  Hester's  possum 
shtew  —  which  you  wouldn't  so  much  as  tas'e. 
But  that  weren't  how  I  kissed  Jim  Dooley  back." 

"  What  put  kissin'  into  yo'  head  to-night,  Sis  ? 
It's  mighty  funny,  'cause  I  was  a-settin'  here 
thinkin'  'bout  kissiu'  too — an'  I  can't  tell  when 
I've  studied  about  sech  a  thing  befo'." 

"I  don'  know.  I  was  jest  a-thinkin'.  Some 
times  it  do  me  good  to  set  an'  think  'way  back." 

"Well,  I  tell  you  how  I  reckon  kissin'  come 
into  my  head.  I  was  jest  a-thinkin'  s'joosiW." 

"  S'posin'  what,  Sis  ?" 

"Well,  s'posin'  all  round.  S'posin'  Jim  Doo 
ley  had  of  came  back  from  the  wah,  fo'  one  thing." 

A  faint  blush  suffused  the  thin  face  of  the 
speaker  at  the  very  audacity  of  that  which  her 
supposition  implied. 

"  An'  s'posin'  Sonny  hadn't  of  taken  to  birds — 
an'  died.  An'  s'posin'  the  bank  hadn't  o'  failed. 
Why,  Sis,  I  could  set  here  an'  s'pose  things  in 
five  minutes  thet  'd  make  everything  different. 
S'posin'  time  Teddy  Brooks  give  you  that  spe 
cial  an'  pertic'lar  kiss,  you  had  jest — ef  not  to  say 


309 

kissed  back,  not  drawed  away  neither.  S'posin' 
that !" 

"  Well,  Sis,  since  we  got  on  the  subjec',  I've 
s'posened  it  more  'n  once-t — pertic'lar  sence  I  see 
how  oP  an'  run  -  down  the  pore  feller  is.  Sally 
Ann  Jones  'ain't  been  even  to  say  a  half-way  wife 
to  'im.  Seem  like  ev'ry  time  she  lays  a  new  baby 
in  the  cradle  fo'  him  to  rock  she  gets  fatter  an' 
purtier,  an'  mo'  no  'count ;  an'  pore  Teddy,  he  sets 
an'  rocks  the  flesh  clean  off'n  his  bones.  Yas,  Sis, 
I've  thought  o'  that  s'posin'  many  a  time,  but  it's 
a  vain  an'  foolish  thought — if  not  a  ongodly  one. 
But  the  one  I've  s'posened  about  most  is  Sonny." 

Both  women  sighed. 

"Somehow,  I  can't  get  used  to  thinkin'  'bout 
Sonny  dyin',  no  way.  No  two  girls  ever  had  a 
better  brother  'n  Sonny.  Sonny  was  a  born  genius 
if  th'  ever  was  one.  Perfesser  Sloan e  down  to 
Spring  Hill  say  hisself  they  warn't  a  young  man 
in  the  county  thet  helt  a  candle  to  Sonny  fo'  head- 
learnin' — not  to  speak  o'  Sonny's  manners.  An' 
when  I  set  an'  look  at  this  houseful  o'  stuffed 
birds  in  glass  cases  an'  think  o'  what  Sonny  might 
o'  been —  Well,  maybe  it  was  God's  will  for  Sonny 
to  take  to  birds,  'stid  o'  drink  or  card-shufflin'like 
some  brothers." 

"  It's  mighty  funny,  Sis,  for  you  an'  me  to  be 
sett'n  up  here  s'posin'  an'  lookin'  back  at  this  per- 
tic'lar  time  when  it  so  p'intedly  behooves  us  to  be 
lookin'  ahead.  Lemme  see  that  paper  ag'in.  Yas, 
here  it  is  in  plain  'Merican :  *  Failure  of  the  Cot- 


310 

ton  King's  Bank  of  Little  Rock' — a  whole  col- 
ume.  Nobody  to  read  that  would  think  of  its 
sett'n'  two  oP  women  to  studyin'  'bout  kissin',  now, 
would  they  ?  What  you  reck'n  we  better  do,  Sis  ? " 

"  God  on'y  knows — an'  He  'ain't  tol'  me — yet. 
'Twouldn't  be  no  use  to  try  takin'  boa'ders,  would 
it?" 

"  'Twouldn't  be  right,  Sis.  They  'ain't  nobody 
in  town  to  boa'd  out  but  them  as  are  boa'din' 
a'ready,  an'  'twould  be  jest  the  same  as  askin'  'em 
to  leave  an'  come  to  us — 'special  as  we  got  the 
fines'  house." 

"'Twould  look  that -a- way,  wouldn't  it?  I 
thought  about  takin'  in  quiltin',  but  there  ag'in, 
you  know  th'  ain't  mo'  quiltin'  give  out  to  be  did 
than  Mis'  Gibbs  can  do — an'  she  half  crippled  too. 
No,  no.  'Fore  I'd  give  out  thet  you  an'  me'd 
take  in  quiltin',  I'd  starve — that  I  would." 

"  I  taken  notice  to  a  pertic'lar  word  you  spoke 
jest  now,  Sis,  'bout  *  God  knows.'  You  ricollec' 
what  the  hymn  say  ? 

4 '  '  Hev  we  trial  or  temptation, 
Take  it  to  the  Lord  in  prayer.' 

Seem  to  me  like  our  trial  been  followed  by  two 
temptations  a'ready.  It's  mos'  nine  o'clock,  an' 
I'm  goin'  to  read  my  chapter  an'  then  lay  this 
case  o'  you  an'  me  out  clear,  on  my  knees,  befo' 
the  Lord — an'  do  you  do  the  same,  Sis,  an  I  b'lieve 
we'll  be  d'rected." 

Lighting  her  candle,  old  lady  Sophia  passed 
noiselessly  into  her  own  room. 


THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE  311 

Her  sister  sat  for  some  time  longer  in  thought; 
then  she,  too,  after  shovelling  some  ashes  over  the 
coals  upon  the  hearth,  took  her  candle  and  went  to 
bed. 

The  Misses  Simpkins  were  twins,  and  at  the 
time  of  the  civil  war  they  had  been  fair,  blooming 
country  maidens  both,  and  they  were  now,  since 
the  death,  a  year  ago,  of  "Sonny,"  their  bachelor 
brother,  the  sole  representatives  of  a  family  that 
had  stood  with  the  best  in  the  Arkansas  commu 
nity  in  which  they  lived — a  family  whose  stand 
ards  and  traditions  had  been  religiously  observed 
in  all  things  by  the  twin  daughters  upon  whose 
frail  maiden  shoulders  had  devolved  responsibil 
ities  hitherto  unknown  to  the  women  of  the  name 
of  Simpkins.  Their  mother  and  grandmother  had 
had  slaves  at  their  call,  and  by  frugal  care  had  ac 
cumulated  what  there,  in  those  days,  was  counted 
as  wealth.  Such,  indeed,  is  affluence  yet  in  this 
inland  country  of  simple  living. 

It  had  been  the  fate  of  the  twins  to  see  this  fort 
une  slowly  dissipated. 

They  had  worn  their  inherited  frugality  itself 
threadbare  in  the  determination  to  "  live  like  paw 
an'  maw  would  like  to  have  us  live  " — and  thus 
far  they  had  succeeded. 

Sonny,  whose  life,  viewed  retrospectively, 
seemed  even  to  their  loving  eyes  a  failure,  had 
been,  when  living,  their  pride  and  joy. 

Sonny  was  in  truth  a  gentleman.  His  one  year 
at  college,  which  he  left  for  the  army  in  '61,  had 


312  THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE 

sufficed  to  introduce  him  into  new  realms  of 
thought  and,  it  may  be,  had  diverted  activity 
from  his  hands  to  his  brain.  Certain  it  is  that 
he  never  grasped  the  changed  situation  after  the 
war,  and  the  sisters  and  he  had  finally  sold  all  the 
farm-lands,  reserving  only  the  few  acres  surround 
ing  the  homestead.  The  proceeds,  deposited  in 
the  failing  bank,  had  yielded  an  income  quite  ad 
equate  to  their  modest  needs. 

Sonny  had  called  himself  a  naturalist ;  and  so 
he  was — in  a  sweeter,  broader  sense  than  he 
knew.  He  was  as  nature  had  made  him,  a  true- 
hearted,  unsophisticated  gentleman. 

He  had,  despite  his  country  rearing,  a  certain 
courtliness  of  manner,  and  the  sparse  oasis  of  gray 
that  surmounted  his  else  bald  pate  gave  him,  at 
least  to  his  fond  sisters'  eyes,  somewhat  the  air  of 
a  college  professor. 

Sonny  had  never  done  an  ungentle  thing  in 
his  life,  nor  apparently  questioned  the  wisdom  of 
his  own  mode  of  living.  For  more  than  twenty 
years  he  had  been  satisfied  to  pursue  his  chosen 
study  and  take  no  note  of  time. 

On  Sunday  mornings  he  always  donned  his 
old  broadcloth  suit  and  beaver,  harnessed  the  old 
horses,  which  he  still  called  "  the  ponies,"  and 
drove  "  the  girls  "  to  church. 

If  they  had  all  grown  old,  Sonny  did  not  know 
it.  He  visited  the  nicest  girls  in  the  village  with 
the  same  gallant  dignity  with  which  he  had  vis 
ited  their  mothers  ;  and  had  he  lived,  he  would 


THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE  313 

have  been  ready  to  recite  to  their  daughters  all 
his  selected  verses  about  women  and  love — when 
the  time  should  come. 

But  Sonny  was  found  one  day,  with  a  live  bird 
still  grasped  in  his  hand,  lying  dead  beneath  a 
tree.  Presumably  he  had  climbed  and  fallen. 

And  now  to  the  lonely  sisters  had  come  a 
second  trial.  Into  their  shadowed  door  had 
stalked,  unbidden  and  unexpected,  the  informal 
guest  called  Poverty,  with  her  startling  command 
of  "  Work  !" 

It  was  dinner-time  on  the  day  following  the 
conversation  recorded  before  they  reverted  to  the 
theme  again. 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Sarey  Mirandy,  "  hev  any 
thing  come  to  you,  sis,  thet  we  can  do  ?" 

"  Hev  anything  come  to  you,  Sis  Sarey  dear  ?" 

"  Yas,  it  has.  An'  I'm  'fraid  it's  small  comfort. 
Th'  ain't  but  two  things  I  can  do,  an'  them's  sewin' 
an'  cookin'.  Th'  ain't  any  sewin'  needin'  to  be 
did  in  Simpkinsville  more  'n  them  as  are  a'ready 
doin'  it  can  do,  an'  as  fo'  cookin',  you  know  how 
much  chance  they  is  in  that — less  'n  a  person  'd 
hire  out,  which  I  can't  do,  not  while  ma  an'  pa's 
'ile-painted  po'trait  looks  down  from  that  chimbly 
at  you  an'  me.  Tell  the  truth,  Sis,  what  to  do,  I 
don't  know.  Hev  you  thought  'bout  it  consider'- 
ble?" 

11  Yas,  I  have,  Sis.  You  can  cook  an'  sew,  an'  I 
can  ca'culate  figgurs,  an'  we  got  a-plenty  o'  house- 
room,  an'  we're  right  on  the  public  road,  an' — " 


314 

"  In  the  name  o'  goodness,  Sis,  hun,  're  you 
wanderin',  or  what  're  you  drivin'  at  ?" 

"Well,  they's  jest  this  much  to  it,  Sis  Sarey 
Mirandy,  I've  got  a  idee,  an'  my  idee  is  thet  it's 
the  idee — an'  that's  all  they  is  to  it." 

Miss  Sarey  Mirandy  readjusted  her  spectacles 
and  scrutinized  her  sister's  face. 

"  Well,  go  on,  honey.  You've  done  got  me 
wrought  up  !" 

"Why,  it's  this  —  an'  I'd  never  o'  thought  o' 
sech  a  thing  if  it  hadn't  o'  been  for  my  trip  to  the 
city,  along  with  me  subscribin'  to  that  magazine, 
both  of  which  you  know,  hun,  you  pretty  solemn 
discountenanced.  I  seen  it  tried  in  the  city,  an1 
the  magazine  is  continual  tellin'  how  it  works 
everywhere — 

"  But  for  gracious  sakes  alive,  Sis,  what  is  the 
thing  ?" 

"  It's  a  Woman's  ^Exchange — that's  what  it  is !" 

"  But,  Sis,  hun,  we  'ain't  got  nothin'  to  start  it 
with." 

"That's  jest  the  beauty  of  it.  They  get 
started  on  nothin'.  We  jest  give  out  thet  the 
Exchange  is  started,  an'  everybody  who  does  any 
sort  o'  work  to  sell  sends  it  in,  an'  we  sell  it  for 
her  an'  deduc'  ten  pre  cent.  You  see  ?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  as  I  do." 

« Well,  here  :  S'posin'  ol'  Mis'  Gibbs,  'stid  o' 
totin'  her  heavy  comforters  all  'round  the  country 
an'  losin'  maybe  two  whole  days'  time  a-sellin'  one 
for  two  dollars,  jest  sends  'em  in  here,  an'  we  sell 


THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE  315 

'em  for  her.  She  gets  —  ten  from  one  dollar 
leaves  ninety  cents,  an'  nine  an'  nine's  eighteen, 
eight  an'  carry  one —  She  gets — " 

"  You  don't  mean  she  gets  eight  dollars  ? 
'Twouldn't  never  do  in  the  world.  People 
wouldn't  pay  it.  An'  besides,  I  thought  you 
said  she  wouldn't  have  to  carry  none?" 

"  Don't  put  me  out,  Sis  ;  I'm  all  frustrated — 'f 
I  jest  had  a  slate !  Now  I  got  it.  You  don't 
carry  at  all.  Ought's  a  ought,  an'  nine  an'  nine's 
eighteen.  She'd  get  a  dollar  V  eighty  cents,  an' 
we'd  get  the  two  dimes.  Then  you  could  put 
any  kind  o'  cooked  things  in  an'  sell  em.  Them 
lemon  pies  o'  yours  'd  sell  like  hot  cakes." 
"  An'  who'd  get  the  pre  cent  on  them,  Sis  ?" 

"Well,  reely,  hun,  I  — I  hardly  know.  We 
got  to  deal  fair.  We  might  give  it  to  charity. 
How'd  it  do  to  give  it  to  Mis'  Gibbs  to  make  up 
the  deduct  on  the  comforters  ?" 

"That  might  do  if  it's  got  to  be  give;  but 
look's  if  it  would  naturally  belong  somewheres, 
don't  it  ?" 

"  It  do  seem  so.  Maybe  we  might  keep  that 
fo'  rent  o'  the  room." 

"  Well,  I  don'  know.  If  we  do,  we  had  ought 
to  give  it  out,  so's  every  person  'd  understand." 

"  Then,  maybe  nex'  thing  some  smarty  'd  be 
offerin'  to  give  a  room  an'  sell  rent  free." 

"  Even  so,  Sis,  if  it's  principle,  it's  got  to  go  so, 
but—" 

She  closed  her  eyes  in  thought. 


316  THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE 

"Seem  to  me— if— we— make— an' — sell both 

— we  got  a  free  right  to  collet  for  both." 

"  why,  yas.  That's  so— that's  so.  An'  yet— 
if  we  sell  our  pies  for  a  quarter,  an'  Mis'  Stith 
send  in  some  thet  gets  deducted — seem  like  we're 
gett'n'  a  advantage  over  her." 

"  We  get  that  by  settitf  'em,  Sis.  If  she  want 
the  whole  quarter,,  let  'er  sell  'em  herself." 

"  That's  so,  of  co'se.  Well,  how'll  we  start 
hun?" 

"  Why  not  have  it  called  out  in  church?  It's 
a  good,  helpful  work." 

And  so  it  was  done. 

When,  on  Sunday  following,  the  minister 
stepped  aside  to  read  the  notice,  Miss  Sophia 
Falena  grew  so  flurried  that  she  untied  her  bon 
net-strings.  Her  sister,  however,  though  snif 
fling  vociferously  herself,  nudged  her,  and  she 
tied  them  again,  and  only  cleared  her  throat  at 
short  intervals. 

The  notice  simply  called  a  meeting  of  all  inter 
ested  in  the  project,  which  was  duly  set  forth  on 
the  next  day  at  the  Simpkins  residence. 

The  response  was  most  encouraging,  all  the 
chairs  in  the  house  and  one  from  the  kitchen  be 
ing  called  into  requisition  to  seat  the  attendants. 

Miss  Sophia's  voice  trembled  distinctly,  as  did 
the  hand  that  held  the  paper  from  which  she  read, 
standing  in  the  midst  of  the  assembly,  her  "  Idees 
on  the  Subjec',"  which  she  had  thought  best  to 
commit  to  paper. 


317 

It  was  a  trying  ordeal,  but  her  sister  had  seen 
to  it  that  a  glass  of  water  stood  at  her  elbow,  and 
at  the  first  quaver  of  her  voice  Miss  Sarey  thought 
best  to  step  behind  her  and  fan  her  solicitously. 

The  meeting  was  in  all  respects  a  success.  Be 
sides  the  assorted  bits  of  advice,  which  all  gave 
freely  on  the  spot,  each  promised  to  "enter" 
something. 

While  Miss  Sophia  Falena,  an  atlas  balanced 
upon  her  knee,  made  a  note  of  articles  promised, 
Miss  Sarey  Miranda  passed  around  raspberry 
vinegar  and  crullers  on  an  old  silver  tray. 

The  two  were  similarly  attired  in  gowns  of 
shiny  black  silk,  whose  swishing  sound  at  every 
movement  seemed,  with  the  clink  of  the  high 
goblets  against  the  silver  waiter,  reminiscent  of  a 
bygone  and  more  prosperous  period. 

The  change  wrought  in  the  Simpkins  household 
by  the  new  enterprise  was  marvellous. 

It  was  as  if  time  had  turned  backward  and 
they  were  young  again,  so  quickly  did  they  move 
about,  so  animatedly  discuss  the  numerous  details 
of  preparation. 

After  considerable  parley  they  decided  to  use 
the  mahogany  centre-table  for  cakes  and  articles 
of  special  showiness,  while  fancy-work  could  be 
advantageously  displayed  on  the  piano.  If  the 
time  should  come  again  when  they  cared  to  hear 
music  in  the  house,  they  could  move  the  things. 
Miss  Sophia,  who  had  been  from  home  more  than 
her  sister,  hated  to  open  the  old  piano  anyway. 


318  THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE 

Indeed,  she  was  once  heard  to  say,  "  When  that 
pi&no  is  shut  an'  kivered  up,  a  person  can  look  at 
it  an'  think  music,  because  the  shape  seems  to 
favor  it  ;  but  jest  open  it,  an'  I  declare  Methusa- 
lum  ain't  nowhere.  It  makes  a  person  ponder  on 
death  an'  eternity." 

The  twins  were  much  interrupted  by  company 
during  the  first  days  after  the  announcement ; 
such  as  had  not  been  able  to  attend  the  meeting 
dropping  in  as  occasion  allowed. 

Some  even  came  after  tea  to  talk  it  over,  as  did 
their  next  neighbor  and  his  old  wife,  when  he 
facetiously  announced,  "  I  heerd  th'  was  a  wom 
an's  exchange  over  here,  an'  I  come  to  see  if  I 
couldn't  change  off  my  oF  'oman  for  one  o'  you 
twinses — air  one  thet  '11  come." 

This  joke  travelled  and  was  perpetrated  by  all 
the  good-humored  happy  husbands  in  the  county, 
to  the  unfailing  delight  of  every  one  present. 

The  Exchange  opened  briskly.  The  centre- 
table  fairly  groaned  beneath  its  burden  of  cakes 
-  "  White  -  Mountain,"  "  Lady  Washington," 
«  Confederate  layer,"  "  Marble,"  "  Dolly  Varden," 
"General  Lee,"  and  a  score  of  others,  iced  and 
decorated  with  reckless  elaboration;  while  in  the 
centre,  completing  the  effect  of  a  spread  feast, 
stood — under  glass,  it  is  true — a  glowing  pyramid 
of  wax  fruits. 

The  piano  was  a  bazaar  of  many-hued  zephyrs, 
from  the  miniature  sacques  and  stockings  of 
shrimp-pink  and  kindred  raw  tints,  relegated  by 


THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE  319 

provincial  taste  to  the  adorning  of  babes,  to  the 
chinchilla  and  purple  capes,  suggestive  of  grand 
mothers'  rheumatic  shoulders. 

On  a  side  table,  wrapped  in  snowy  linen,  were 
heaped  loaves  of  home-made  bread,  buns,  rolls, 
lemon-pies — the  home  contribution. 

A  stream  of  people  were  coming  all  day,  ex 
amining  things,  pricing,  but  rarely  buying.  In 
deed,  nearly  all  had  something  in  stock  to  sell. 

The  two  old  ladies  flitted  briskly  about,  ever 
and  anon  putting  their  heads  together,  only  to 
dart  off  in  other  directions,  as  busy  and  buzzy 
as  two  happy  house-flies  on  a  sunny  day — only 
the  bright  red  spots  on  their  cheeks  testifying  to 
the  unusual  agitation  of  their  minds. 

That  they  had  need  of  tact,  discretion,  and 
judgment,  not  to  mention  patience,  a  bit  of  con 
versation,  caught  up  at  random,  will  perhaps  best 
illustrate. 

"  An'  who  sent  in  this  curious  cake,  Miss  Simp- 
kins?" 

The  querist  was  a  patroness  of  influence. 

"  Kate  Clark  sent  in  that'n,  Mis'  Blanks.  It's  a 
'will-o'-the-wisp,'  made  out'n  five  times  sifted 
flour  'n'  whites  of  eggs.  She  says  she  made  it  up, 
name  an'  all." 

"  Seem  to  me,  she'd  have  'bout  all  she  could  do 
makin'  up  rhymin'  po'try.  What  price  does  she 
put  on  it  ?" 

"She  wouldn't  name  no  sum.  She  says  she 
never  prices  the  work  of  her  mind  in  money,  an' 


320  THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE 

that  cake  is  jest  the  same  to  her  as  a  po'try-verse. 
She'll  be  grateful  for  whatever  it  '11  fetch." 

"  Well,  I  vow  !  Time  a  person  taken  to  writin' 
po'try  seem  like  they  all  but  lose  what  little  sense 
they  got.  How  you  goin'  to  sell  it  'thout  no 
price  ?" 

"  Well,  we  'lowed  that  anybody  thet  M  want  it 
'd  deal  fair.  I  s'pose  bein'  as  they's  nothin'  but 
eggs,  an'  only  the  half  o'  them,  in  it,  they  mus'  be 
consider'ble  flour.  An'  si/tin?  it  five  times — you 
know  that's  worrisome  work.  An'  the  eggs  is 
well  beat,  you  can  see  that.  Don't  you  reck'n 
it's  wuth  two  bits  ?" 

"  Maybe  it  is  for  them  as  are  willin'  to  buy  a 
quarter's  wuth  o'  wind.  When  I  want  air,  I'll  go 
out-do's  an'  sniff  it !  That's  all  I'm  askin'  fo' 
mine,  an'  it  iced  all  over,  an'  eight  whole  eggs  in 
it,  an'  them  beat  sep'rate,  an'  a  cup  o'  butter,  not 
mentionin'  the  other  things,  nur  the  extrac*.  They's 
a  spoonful  o'  v'nilla  extrac'  in  my  cake  if  they's  a 
drop,  for  I  dashed  it  in  by  my  eye — an'  I've  got 
what  you  call  big  eyes,  come  to  measurin'  food 
stuffs." 

The  speaker's  little  blue  eyes  snapped  sharply, 
and  she  sniffed  twice  in  hesitation  ere  she  pro 
ceeded,  with  some  embarrassment: 

"If  you  goin'  to  charge  twenty-five  cents  fo' 
Kate  Clark's  pile  o'  baked  bubbles — you  can  lift 
it  an'  see  it's  nothin'  else — you  better  rub  that 
twenty-five  off  o'  my  iced  cake  an'  put  a  forty  on 
it  That's  it,  a  four  an'  a  ought ;  an'  whoever 


THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE  321 

buys  mine  gets  four  dimes'  wuth  o'  good  nourish 
ment,  if  I  do  say  it." 
She  moved  on  apace. 

"I  see  Kitty  Baker's  sent  in  a  lot  o'  things. 
Well,  them  as  want  to  eat  after  Kitty  can— that's 
all  /got  to  say." 

"  Kitty's  a  well-meanin'  girl,  Mis'  Blanks,  an' 
needy  too.  S'posin'  you  don't  say  nothin'  like 
that  to  nobody.  I  see  the  flour  is  caked  some 
roun'  the  edges  of  her  cakes,  but  that  ain't  sayin' 
they's  anything  wrong  with  her  cookin'." 

"  Why,  Miss  Sarey  Jfi-randy  Simpkins  !  I'm  a 
perfessin'  Christian,  as  you  know— an'  tryin'  to 
live  up  to  my  lights.  I  wouldn't  say  nothin'  to 
injure  Kitty  /o'  nothin\  Them  remarks  I  make 
to  you  is  jes'  to  say  'twix*  you  an'  me  an'  the  bed- 
pos'.  One  o'  my  motters  is,  '  Live  an'  let  live,'  an1 
another  one"— she  added  with  a  laugh-"*  What 
don't  pizen,  fattens.'  What  you  askin'  fo'  yo' 
lemon-pies,  Miss  Simpkius  ?" 

"  Twenty -five  cents,  Mis'  Blanks." 
"  Mh— hm  !     I  s'pose  they're  made  by  yo'  ma's 
ol'  recipe— three  eggs  to  the  pie,  savin'  out  the 
whites  to  whip  up  fo'  the  top  ?" 

"'Deed,  Mis'  Blanks,  Sis  made  'em,  an'  I 
couldn't  tell  you  jest  how  she  po'tioned  'em  ; 
but  I  know  she  ca'culated  that  they  come  to  eigh 
teen  cents  apiece,  not  countin'  firewood,  which, 
sence  pore  Sonny's  gone,  we  have  to  hire  to  have 
cut." 

"  CertVy— an'  yet,  I'd  think  a  little  thing  like 

21 


822  THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE 

a  pie  you  could  slip  in  whils'  the  other  things  are 
bakin'." 

"  That's  so,  we  do ;  an'  yet — ?  Do  you  think 
two  bits  is  too  much  for  'em,  Mis'  Blanks  ?" 

"Law,  child,  the  idee!  I  was  jest  a-thinkin' 
this.  You  know,  business  is  business,  Miss  Simp- 
kins,  an'  I  was  jest  a-thinkin' — they  can't,  noways, 
be  more  'n  Jive  eggs  in  a  pie — even  if  they  was 
guinea  eggs  —  an'  they's  eight  in  my  cake  —  an1 
it  iced — an"1  flavored.  Jest  rub  out  that  four, 
please  'm,  an'  put  a  five  on  my  cake,  will  you  ? 
'Cordin'  to  the  gen'ral  valliation  it's  wuth  a  half- 
a-dollar  if  it's  wuth  a  cent.  Well,  I  mus'  be  goin'. 
What  you  chargin'  fo'  yo'  bread,  Miss  Simp- 
kins  ?" 

The  old  lady  addressed  scarcely  found  voice  to 
answer, 

"  Ten  cents  a  loaf,  Mis'  Blanks." 

"  Well,  you  better  gimme  a  loaf,  please  'm.  You 
see,  makin'  cake  an'  bringin'  it  to  the  Exchange, 
I  didn't  bake  to-day.  I  s'pose  you  make  with 
salt-risin',  don't  you?" 

"  No,  Mis'  Blanks,  we  raise  with  'eas'-cakes." 

"  Jest  so  it  don't  tas'e  hoppy  I  ain't  pertic'lar, 
but  from  hoppy  bread  Oliver  me.  Well,  good-by, 
Miss  Sarey  Mirandy,  honey,  good-by,  an'  I'm  goin' 
to  pray  for  you  to  succeed.  Lemme  know  who 
buys  my  cake.  I  do  wish  I  could  be  there  to  see 
it  cut.  Well,  good-by  again.  Law,  here  comes 
Mis'  Brooks  with  a  bundle  big  as  a  Chris'mas- 
tree.  I  must  stop  an'  see  what  she's  fetchin'.  I 


THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE  323 

do  declare  this  here  Woman's  .Exchange  does 
tickle  me  all  but  to  death.  Simpkinsville  'ain't 
been  so  stirred  up  sence  the  fire.  Howdy,  Mis' 
Brooks  ?  I  see  you  keepin'  the  ball  a-movin' !" 

"  You  better  b'lieve  I  wasn't  goin'  to  be  outdid 
by  all  you  smart  seamsters  an'  fancy  cooks." 

And  Teddy  Brooks's  wife,  drawing  off  its  loose 
wrapping  of  paper,  set  upon  the  table  a  gorgeous 
pair  of  old  brass  candelabra. 

"  How's  them  for  antics  ?"  she  exclaimed,  rest 
ing  her  hands  upon  her  fat  hips  and  stepping  back 
ward. 

These  candelabra  had  been  the  proudest  pos 
session  of  Teddy's  mother  to  the  day  of  her  death. 
To  sell  them  seemed  sacrilege  to  the  loyal  mind 
of  Miss  Sarey  Mirandy. 

"  Are  they — for  sale  ?"  she  asked,  with  an  effort 
at  composure. 

"  Why,  yes  indeedy.  Of  course  they're  for  sale, 
Miss  Simpkins.  'Ain't  nobody  else  brought  in  no 
antics?  They're  the  special  specialities  they  sell 
in  Exchanges,  antics  are.  I  wanted  to  fetch  over 
Teddy's  ma's  gran'ma's  bellowses.  The  wind's 
all  out  of  'em,  an'  they're  no  good  'cept'n  as  an 
tics,  which  I  naturally  despise.  But  Teddy  taken 
it  so  hard  I  had  to  leave  'em,  to  keep  the  peace. 
You  ask  if  they're  fo'  sale.  Ain't  ev'rything  here 
fo'  sale,  Miss  Simpkins  ?" 

"Ev'rything  thet  is  is,  of  course,  but  they's 
some  things  that  ain't.  Sonny's  birds  ain't,  nor 
pa's  an'  ma's  'ile- painted  po'traits,  nor  none  o* 


324 

them  things  which  them  as  are  gone  seem  to  stan' 
guard  over." 

"  Well,  the  way  I  look  at  that  is,  if  the  spirits 
that  stan'  guard  over  things,  as  you  say,  would 
jest  keep  'em  dusted  an'  cobwebbed  off,  so's  we 
could  be  sure  they  was  keepin'  up  with  'em,  they'd 
be  some  sense  in  it.  Teddy  took  on  some  over 
sellin'  the  ol'  things,  but  I  tol'  him  he  hisself  was 
the  only  Brooks  antic  I  cared  to  keep.  How  much 
you  reck'n  I  ought  to  get  for  'em,  Miss  Simp- 
kins  ?" 

"I'm  'feerd  I  was  too  ol'  a  frien'  to  ol'  Mis' 
Brooks,  Sally  Ann,  to  put  a  price  on  them  can- 
delabras;  but  you're  at  liberty  to  put  whatever 
tag  you  like  on  'em — an'  Sis  an'  me  '11  do  our 
part,  fair  an'  square.  I  see  they's  one  dangle 
missin'  on  this  one." 

"  Yes,  I  give  it  to  the  baby  to  cut  'is  eye-teeth 
on,  an'  he  dropped  it  an'  it  snapped.  The  things 
're  no  manner  of  account.  They  cost  a  hundred 
dollars,  an'  I  doubt  if  I'll  get  ten  for  'em,  but 
I'm  goin'  to  start  'em  at  that  anyway.  I'm  dyin' 
for  a  swingin'  silver-plated  ice-pitcher,  an'  have  it 
I  will.  I've  got  the  price  all  to  seven  dollars. 
Teddy  laid  it  by  to  have  the  children's  pictures 
took,  but  I  told  him  the  young  ones  could  see 
their  pictures  in  the  side  o'  the  ice-pitcher."  And 
Mrs.  Brooks  laughed  heartily  at  her  own  wit. 
"  When  I  can  swing  back  in  my  red-plush  rockin'- 
chair  an'  tilt  ice-water  out  of  a  silver-plated  pitch 
er,  I'll  feel  like  some.  I  see  you've  got  lots  o* 


THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE  325 

goodies  for  sale.  I'm  bound  to  have  something  from 
th'  Exchange  for  supper.  What  kinds  have  you 
got  ?"  She  slipped  a  piece  of  liquorice-root  from 
her  pocket  to  her  mouth  as  she  began  a  circuit  of 
the  room,  chewing  vigorously  the  while.  "Bet 
ter  do  up  that  choc'late  layer  for  me,  Miss  Simp- 
kins,"  she  said  finally.  "  Teddy  don't  eat  choc' 
late,  but  I  don'  know  but  he's  better  off  'thout 
cake,  anyway.  Jes'  charge  it,  please,  to  Teddy — 
Mr.  Theodore  Brooks  —  that's  it.  Might's  well 
open  a  'count  here  first  as  last,  'f  you're  goin'  to 
have  choc'late  fixin's — that's  the  one  thing  I  c'd 
get  up  in  my  sleep  to  eat — an'  I  don'  know's  I'll 
bother  bakin',  if  you're  goin'  to  have  bread.  Jest 
lay  by  a  couple  o'  loaves  every  day,  please  'm." 

When  Mrs.  Brooks  passed  out,  the  sisters,  from 
their  opposite  corners  of  the  room,  managed  to 
exchange  glances,  and  both  sighed. 

When  the  first  day  was  over,  all  the  bread  and 
rolls  were  sold ;  indeed,  nearly  all  the  housewives 
who  had  taken  this  first  step  in  bread-winning 
went  home  with  bought  loaves  under  their  arms. 

It  was  only  after  some  days,  when  the  gorgeous 
array  of  sweets  was  growing  stale,  that  the  sisters 
and  their  patronesses  began  to  realize  that  there 
were  few  buyers  of  luxuries  in  their  frugal  little 
village. 

Besides  several  purchases  of  Mrs.  Brooks,  there 
had  been  but  one  cake  sold.  The  "  will  -  o'-the- 
wisp"  had  passed  on  the  second  day  into  the 
possession  of  a  certain  pale  young  telegraph 


operator,  the  same  who  was  "  keeping  company  " 
with  its  poetic  fabricator. 

Perhaps  the  materialistic  circle  of  housewives 
whose  substantial  contributions  were  further  so 
lidifying  before  their  eyes  should  be  pardoned 
the  numerous  pleasantries  expended  on  this  pur 
chase. 

That  the  objects  of  their  mirth,  two  ethereal 
young  persons,  dealing  professionally  in  commod 
ities  so  unsubstantial  as  poetry  and  electricity, 
should  choose  "  wind  cake  "  for  nourishment,  was 
a  combination  too  prolific  of  humor  to  be  passed 
by.  The  portly  contributor  of  the  still  unsold 
eight -egg  cake  waxed  especially  facetious  over 
it ;  and  on  the  occasion  of  the  unanimous  vote  of 
"  stockholders,"  to  send  the  entire  stale  lot  as  a 
donation  to  the  inmates  of  the  poorhouse,  she 
even  went  so  far  as  to  withdraw  hers  from  them, 
and  to  bear  it  in  her  own  hands,  as  a  gift,  to  her 
friend  the  poetess,  who,  she  declared,  should  have 
"  one  good  bite  o'  solid  substance,  if  she  never 
had  another." 

Thus  she  did,  after  all,  enjoy  the  delight  of 
"seeing  it  cut,"  while  she  sampled  its  flavor. 
Then,  between  slices,  it  was  such  a  joy  to  drop 
delicate  insinuations  about  the  telegraph  operator, 
and  to  glean  points  as  to  the  expected  wedding ; 
while  she  saw  to  it  that  a  few  good  seed,  in  the 
shape  of  admonitions  as  to  the  nutritive  properties 
of  certain  foods,  were  let  fall  during  the  visit. 
For  she  was  a  motherly  soul  and  a  Christian. 


THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE  327 

The  exclusion  of  confections,  excepting  those 
supplied  to  order,  practically  converted  the  Ex 
change  into  a  bakery ;  for  the  fancy  depart 
ment,  after  passing  through  a  fading  process, 
had  shrunken,  through  many  withdrawals,  until  a 
single  glass  case — an  unused  one  among  Sonny's 
possessions — held  the  entire  stock. 

Screened  from  the  odium  of  professional  bread- 
making  by  the  prestige  of  the  "Exchange,"  the 
Misses  Simpkins  were  thus  enabled  to  earn  in  this 
simple  manner  a  modest  living.  True,  the  voca 
tion  had  its  trials,  but  there  were  compensations. 

If  their  delicate  wrists  and  arms  were  deco 
rated  with  a  succession  of  bracelets  in  the  shape 
of  burns  from  the  oven  doors  ;  if  they  agonized 
many  nights  over  the  intricacies  of  numerous 
recipes  sent  in  by  kind  advisers,  and  were  oft 
disquieted  in  spirit  by  the  vicissitudes  of  salt- 
rising,  compressed  yeast,  or  potato-leaven  ;  it  was 
yet  a  new,  youth-restoring  life  to  be  always  pro 
fessedly  and  really  busy  with  work  that  left  no 
time  for  repinings.  It  was  a  sweet,  secret  pleas 
ure  to  Miss  Sarey  Mirandy  to  make  the  loaves 
Teddy  Brooks  paid  for  as  large  as  she  dared 
without  attracting  notice.  And  sometimes,  on  an 
niversaries — which,  perhaps,  she  alone  cherished — 
of  their  young  days,  it  pleased  her  tender  maiden 
heart  to  slip  a  few  raisins  into  his  loaf,  with  a 
suspicion  of  cinnamon,  in  loving  memory  of  his 
boyish  fancies. 

For  some  time  she  was  tortured  with  a  dread 


THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE 

that  some  one  should  offer  to  buy  the  candelabra. 
Should  such  a  time  come,  she  would  calmly  reply 
that  they  were  already  sold,  when  from  an  old 
stocking  she  would  produce  one  of  the  ten-dollar 
coins  that  represented  her  own  funeral  expenses. 
It  should  buy  Teddy's  wife  a  swinging  pitcher, 
and  the  candelabra  would  descend  by  will  at  her 
death  to  Teddy's  daughter — his  mother's  name 
sake. 

For  a  long  time  she  scarcely  left  the  house, 
fearing  her  sister  should  sell  them  during  her  ab 
sence.  Indeed,  at  times  she  was  in  such  a  state 
of  suppressed  panic  over  the  matter  that  she 
would  gladly  have  bought  them  outright,  were  it 
not  for  gossip. 

People  would  talk.  In  her  calm  moments,  she 
knew  that  no  one  in  Simpkinsville  would  pay  half 
the  amount  asked  for  useless,  old-fashioned  bric-a- 
brac  that  they  had  seen  all  their  lives.  In  fact,  she 
had  often  heard  the  women  jokingly  wonder  who 
would  buy  "  Mis'  Brooks's  antics,"  and  "  if,  be 
cause  she'd  visited  in  Washington" — a  distant 
town  in  the  State,  noted  for  its  social  distinc 
tion — "  she  was  the  only  person  in  Simpkinsville 
who  knowed  about  swingin'  ice-pitchers."  When 
they  "  had  change  to  fling  away,  they'd  buy  ice- 
pitchers  for  themselves,  an'  not  swap  it  off  for 
glass  Noah's-ark  dingle-dangles." 

So  in  time  Miss  Sarey  grew  to  feel  pretty 
secure  about  the  candelabra,  and  at  night,  when 
her  sister  knitted  or  nodded  beside  her,  she  would 


THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE  329 

often  half-close  her  eyes,  and,  looking  at  the  glass 
pendants,  seem  to  see,  as  the  fire  sparkled  from 
the  prisms,  bright  memory  pictures  of  her  youth 
ful  days.  A  rosy-faced  girl  with  curls,  her  young 
self,  often  smiled  at  the  retrospective  old  woman 
from  the  familiar  scenes,  and  Teddy  was  there  and 
Sonny,  and  another — a  boy  who  had  not  come 
home  from  the  war — and  every  one  was  young, 
and  the  trees  were  green,  producing  nuts,  berries, 
persimmons,  or  sustaining  grape-vine  swings,  as 
reminiscence  required.  Only  the  missing  dangle, 
on  which  Sally  Ann's  baby  had  cut  his  teeth, 
made  a  painful  gap  in  the  panorama. 

In  this  vacant  place  Teddy,  grown  pale-faced 
and  weary,  seemed  somehow  always  to  stand,  and 
while  she  looked  at  it  all  the  other  pictures  went 
out.  So  she  would  turn  the  defective  side  to  the 
wall. 

When  the  winter  had  passed,  the  Exchange 
had  gone  through  some  changes,  shaping  itself 
to  the  needs  of  the  community  by  contraction  or 
extension,  according  to  indication.  A  few,  who 
seemed  especially  fitted  to  become  at  once  its 
patrons  and  beneficiaries,  had  resented  its  over 
tures  as  an  insult,  as  did  Mrs.  Gibbs,  the  re 
spected  quilter  of  comfortables.  From  every 
point  of  view  the  Exchange  was  an  offence  unto 
her  sensitive  nostrils.  To  its  bid  for  her  patron 
age  she  had  protested  with  a  sniff  that  "  she  hed 
never  ast  no  mo'  'n  they  was  wuth  fo'  her  quilts, 
an'  the  day  she  took  off  two  dimes  on  one  she'd 


THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE 

own  that  she  owed  jest  that  much  to  every  per' 
son  as  ever  bought  one.  As  fo'  totin'  'em  'round 
the  country,  she  didn't  know  as  'twas  anybody's 
business  in  special.  The  roads  was  free,  and 
she  reckoned  her  rheumatism  was  her  own — not 
but  what  she'd  be  glad  to  give  it  to  anybody 
that  was  honin'  to  take  keer  of  it.  As  to  her 
time,  she  hadn't  bound  herself  out  to  nobody 
but  the  good  Lord,  an'  she  'lowed  to  claim  the 
time  he  gave  her  till  he  changed  it  for  eternity, 
when  she  guessed  she'd  take  that  too,  ef  the 
Simpkinsville  folks  didn't  have  no  objections. 
The  only  visitin'  she  ever  done  was  takin'  orders 
in  the  spring  o'  the  year  and  deliverin'  her  money's 
wuth  to  a  cent  in  the  fall.  Them  that  thought 
she  gadded  too  much  was  welcome  to  do  'thout 
comforts  an'  freeze,  jest  to  give  her  the  hint." 

The  truth  was  that  the  social  side  of  Mrs. 
Gibbs's  profession  was  her  very  life.  A  habit  of 
spending  a  day  with  her  patrons  at  both  ends  of 
each  transaction  kept  her  in  touch  with  the  home 
lives  of  the  people.  If  she  had  conducted  her 
business  through  an  agent,  she  would  long  ago 
have  shrivelled  out  of  existence.  There  was  much 
in  her  work  to  develop  an  interest  in  what  to 
outsiders  might  seem  trifles — such,  for  instance, 
as  which  among  her  patrons'  families  kicked  in 
their  sleep — and  in  her  social  rounds  it  became 
her  pleasure  to  discover  whether  the  solution  lay 
in  the  eating  of  hot  suppers  or  in  guilty  con 
sciences. 


THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE  331 

She  would  hold  up  before  her  a  quilt  that  was 
"  clean  kicked  to  strips  before  the  battin'  was  mat 
ted,"  and  exclaim  with  a  grunt  that  was  half  a 
chuckle,  "  Hot  suppers  !  Like  as  not  fried  chicken 
at  eight  o'clock  all  winter  long  !"  And  then  she 
would  unwittingly  smack  her  lips. 

Though  theoretically  respecting  the  quiet  sleep 
ers,  whose  quilts,  although  often  "made  out'n  the 
back  brea'ths  of  ol'  skirts,  lasted  their  time  out," 
it  was  nevertheless  true  that  their  greater  patron 
age  fostered  nearer  friendships  with  such  as  were 
able  to  bid  her  remain  to  steaming  waffles  and  to 
send  her  home  in  a  wagon. 

If  the  Exchange  failed  to  fulfil  all  its  possibili 
ties  in  some  directions,  it  did  unforeseen  duty  in 
others,  especially  supplying  an  oft-felt  want  in 
the  open  door  which  it  soon  offered  to  the  passing 
stranger. 

Simpkinsville  had  never  boasted  a  hotel,  and  so 
it  naturally  came  about  that,  in  the  common  par 
lance  of  the  village,  travellers  understood  that 
"  at  the  .Exchange  they  could  get  comfortably  et 
an'  slep' "  for  a  reasonable  consideration. 

This  was  robbing  no  one,  as  previously  it  had 
been  an  unwritten  law  of  hospitality  of  the  town 
that  strangers  be  entertained  gratis.  It  seemed 
odd  that  its  leading  family — that  which  not  only 
lent  the  dignity  of  its  solitary  gabled  front  to  its 
highest  eminence,  but  had  bequeathed  to  Simp 
kinsville  its  name  and  traditions  —  should  have 
been  first  to  put  a  pr^ce  on  the  bread  broken  with 


332  THE    WOMAN  S    EXCHANGE 

a  stranger;  but  such  is  the  irony  of  fact,  for,  with 
a  sensitiveness  revealed  to  the  close  observer  by 
the  slight  pursing  of  their  lips,  which  perhaps  the 
wayfarer  interpreted  as  having  a  mercenary  mean 
ing,  these  two  old  ladies  did  actually  charge  him 
twenty-five  cents  who  consumed  a  hearty  meal, 
reducing  the  bill  with  minute  scrupulousness  to 
fifteen  and  even  to  ten  cents  to  such  as  failed  in 
appetite.  Further  than  this  their  most  rigorous 
consciences  did  not  lead  them,  as  they  agreed  that 
it  was  "  wuth  a  dime  to  cook  things  an'  then  not 
see  'em  et." 

That  they  were  sensitive  to  their  changed  so 
cial  relations  through  the  ever-present  atmosphere 
of  trade  was  evinced  by  a  conversation  one  night, 
when  Miss  Sophia  Falena  broke  a  long  silence  by 
saying, 

"  Sis,  hun,  I  been  figgurin'  to  see  how  we  can 
contrive  to  move  the  Exchange  out'n  the  parlor. 
When  we  do  have  outside  comp'ny,  I  declare  I 
hate  to  set  'em  'round  that  centre-table  piled  up 
with  sech  as  we  been  raised  to  offer  our  comp'ny 
free — an'  it  fo'  sale.  Time  the  Jenkses  come  in 
last  week,  an'  we  sat  'round  so  solemcholy,  every 
now  'n'  ag'in  glancin'  at  the  table,  which  was  cov 
ered  up  with  mosquito-nett'n',  I  vow  if  the  thing 
didn't  seem  to  me  like  some  sort  o'  dead  corpse, 
an'  's  if  we  were  some  way  holdin'  a  wake  over 
it — an'  oughtn't  to  laugh  out  loud." 

Her  sister  chuckled  nervously. 

"  It's  funny,  Sis,  but  d'  you  know,  I  thought 


THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE  333 

about  that  too,  an' — maybe  I  oughtn't  to  say  it,  but 
it  'minded  me  o'  pore  Sonny's  buryin',  an'  ma's  an' 
pa's.  But  I  don't  see  feow  we  can  help  it.  We 
might  clear  off  the  table  entire,  an'  put  the  bread 
an'  rolls  on  shelves.  I  never  knew  of  no  dead 
person  bein'  laid  on  a  shelf — not  literal,  though 
the  way  they're  forgot  they  might  's  well  be." 

"  Let's  do  it,  Sis,  an'  get  shet  o'  that  ghostly 
covered  table.  Maybe  you  didn't  take  notice  to 
it,  but  last  Sadday,  when  ol'  Mis'  Perkins  sidled 
up  to  the  table  so  stately  an'  raised  up  the  nettin', 
she  said  the  identical  pertic'lar  word  thet  she  said 
time  she  taken  a  last  look  at  Sonny  ;  *  Jes'  as  nat 
ural  as  life,'  says  she,  jes'  so.  Of  course,  she  was 
referrin'  to  Inez  Bowman's  case  o'  wax  fruits,  but 
it  gimme  the  cold  shivers  to  see  her  standin'  there 
again,  a-sayin'  them  same  words.  An'  they's  an 
other  thing  strikes  me,  Sis.  When  a  day  or  a 
night  boa'der  do  drop  in,  it  seems  to  me  the  house 
mus'  seem  sort  o'  gloomy  with  nobody  in  it  but  a 
lot  o'  dead  glass-eyed  stuffed  birds  an'  two  ol'  la 
dies — which  you  know  to  outsiders  we  are,  Sis — 
an'  them  dressed  in  black,  solid  as  Egyp'.  Seem 
to  me  it's  enough  to  sort  o'  take  away  a  travellin' 
man's  appetite.  How'd  it  do  fo'  you  an'  me  to 
bas'e  a  little  white  ruchin'  in  the  neck  an'  sleeves 
o'  oivr  black  comp'ny  dresses — not  meanin'  no  dis- 
respec's  to  the  dead,  but  in  compliment  to  the 
livin'  ?" 

"  Well,  ef  you  say  so,  Sis,  hun.  Seem  like  our 
first  duty  is  to  the  livin'.  Maybe  if  we  do  lighten 


334 

our  mo'nin'  a  little,  these  worldly  drummers  an' 
sech  won't  feel  called  to  talk  religion  to  us  like 
they  do.  I  can  see  it  comes  pretty  hard  on  'em." 

"  An'  I  declare,  maybe  it's  foolish,  but  I  do  wish 
Tom  wasn't  a  black  cat.  He  looks  mighty  dole 
ful,  layin'  asleep  on  the  hearth  of  evenin's.  A  pink 
ribbon  'roun'  his  neck  wouldn't  look  too  worldly, 
would  it — not  for  the  pore  soulless  beast,  hun,  of 
course,  but  for  us  ?" 

"  Why,  no,  I  reck'n  not — or  a  blue  one.  The 
blue  bow  on  my  valedict'ry  is  purty  faded,  but  if 
you  think  it  'd  do,  why,  th'  ain't  no  use  in  keepin' 
it  no  longer.  If  Sonny  had  o'  lived  an'  married — 
which,  for  a  man,  as  long  as  they's  life  they's 
hope — they  might  in  time  o'  been  sech  as  would 
care  fo'  they  ol'  auntie's  valedict'ry.  That  rib 
bon  cost  five  dollars  a  yard  in  Confed'rit  money, 
an'  'tain't  all  silk,  neither — but  for  a  cat — " 

"  'Tain't  any  too  good  fo'  Tom,  Sis — he  been  a 
faithful  ol'  cat.  But  they's  another  p'int  on  my 
mind.  Don't  you  think  maybe  we  better  open  up 
Sonny's  room  an'  sun  it  good  an'  reg'late  it,  so's 
if  we're  pushed  fo'  room  we  could  let  comp'ny 
go  up  there  to  sleep  ?  As  'tis,  we  can't  sleep  mo'  'n 
three  strangers  no  way,  an'  if  a  crowd  was  to 
come-T-not  thet  they're  likely —  But  I  b'lieve  if 
we'd  do  it,  we'd  be  relieved  ourselves.  As  long  as 
we  keep  it  shet  tight,  jest  the  way  Sonny  left  it, 
we'll  feel  like  death  is  locked  in — an'  I  don't  know 
as  it's  Christian.  What  you  say,  Sis?" 

"  Well,  maybe  you're  right,  dearie.     S'pose  we 


.  . 


THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE  335 

go  up  in  the  mornin'  together.  I've  done  started 
up  there  three  times  a'ready,  an'  my  knees  trem 
bled  so  they  give  way  under  me — but  if  you  was 
with  me,  maybe —  You  don't  s'pose  strangers 
would  mind  sleepin'  with  so  many  birds,  do  you  ?" 

"Cert'n'y  not.  Why  should  they,  les'n  may 
be  they  was  high-strung,  an'  their  mind  got  ex 
cited  ?  Ef  so,  they  might  imagine  they  was  all 
singin'  at  once-t,  quick  as  the  light  was  out.  If 
sech  a  person  was  to  try  to  sleep  there — well,  I 
dunno.  They's  thirty-one  hundred  an'  sixty-three 
stuffed  birds  in  that  garret  room,  an'  all  in  sight 
o'  the  bed." 

"Shucks,  Sis  !  you're  talkin'  redic'lous— I  vow  if 
you  ain't!  D' you  s'pose  any  right-minded  man 
would  think  o'  sech  as  that  ?  Of  course  we  ain't 
goin'  to  put  no  skittish  person  to  sleep  in  Sonny's 
room,  no  way — jest  reel  gentlemen,  an'  only  them 
if  we're  pushed." 

"It  cert'n'y  do  behoove  us  to  take  in  all  we 
can  hones',  Sis,  for  seem  like  the  Exchange  money 
don't  mo'  'n  to  say  hardly  pay  our  boa'd,  some 
how." 

The  truth  was,  the  profits  of  bread-making  were 
steadily  shrinking.  Not  only  did  Teddy  Brooks's 
loaves  grow  larger  and  larger  as  he  waxed  paler 
and  more  careworn,  but  among  the  "customers" 
of  the  Exchange  there  was  scarce  one  whose  cir 
cumstances  did  not  seem  to  the  old  ladies  an  ap 
peal  for  generosity — hardly  one  who  was  not,  as 
they  said,  "mo'  in  need  'n  we  are." 


It  would  have  been  a  hopelessly  weary  business 
but  for  its  rich  perquisites  in  opportunities  of 
sympathy  and  helpfulness. 

The  spacious  garret  chamber  was  thrown  open 
none  too  soon,  as  only  a  week  later  it  was  called 
into  unexpected  requisition  through  the  arrival, 
late  one  evening,  of  a  party  of  five  dust-begrimed 
travellers,  whom  the  ladies  would  have  feared 
to  receive  had  they  not  been  accompanied  by  a 
neighbor  who  had  taken  charge  of  their  horses, 
and  who,  in  a  whisper  aside,  announced  them  as 
"  Uncle  Sam's  men,  with  a-plenty  o'  greenbacks." 

While  the  strangers  sat  at  supper  that  night,  it 
was  pathetic  to  see  the  solicitous  scrutiny  with 
which  their  hostesses  scanned  their  faces  in  turn, 
eager  for  some  sign  by  which  to  decide  whom  of 
them  all  should  be  counted  worthy  to  sleep  in 
Sonny's  bed. 

A  chance  remark  settled  the  question. 

"  Well,"  said  one,  "  I  believe  we  are  in  the  land 
of  the  myrtle  and  orange." 

"  Hardly,"  rejoined  another  ;  "  but  better  yet, 
we  are  in  the  country  of  the  night-singing  mock 
ing-bird.  Do  you  ladies  ever  hear  them  at  night  ?" 
he  added. 

"  From  the  up-stairs  bedroom,"  replied  both  sis 
ters  at  once,  while  Miss  Sophia  continued, 

"The  winders  open  right  out  into  the  magi- 
nolia-trees,  where  they  set  an'  sing  all  night  long, 
some  nights." 

The  stranger's  eyes  beamed. 


THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE  337 

"  How  delightful  !  If  one  might  be  so  fortu 
nate  ?"  he  replied  with  a  rising  inflection,  smiling. 
"It's  yore  room,  sir,  for  the  night,"  both  said 
together,  again  exchanging  glances,  "  with  which 
ever  one  o'  the  other  gentlemen  you  choose.  They's 
a  wide,  easy-sleepin'  bed  in  it,  a-plenty  broad  fo' 
two.  An'  if  you  want  to  hear  the  birds  sing,  jest 
open  any  winder  you  like.  They's  four,  not  count- 
in'  the  dormers,  an'  they  all  open  into  trees,  an' 
every  tree's  full  o'  birds'  nests." 

"  Isn't  that  remarkable  ?  Are  all  the  trees  here 
full  of  nests  ?"  the  stranger  asked. 

"  No,  sir.  Sonny — Mr.  Stephen  Decatur  Simp- 
kins,  our  brother  thet's  passed  away — he  had  a 
gift.  He  got  'em  to  nestin'  there." 

"  He  was  a  lover  of  birds,  do  I  understand  ?" 
The  sisters  exchanged  glances  again,  and  Miss 
Sarey  answered  simply, 

"  Yas,  sir.     He  was  a  naturalist." 
"Ah,  indeed." 

Around  the  speaker's  mouth  played  that  ghost 
of  a  smile  which,  being  interpreted,  means  amused 
incredulity,  while  the  conversation,  becoming  gen 
eral,  passed  to  other  things. 

With  such  an  introduction,  an  hour  later,  Mr. 
John  Saunders,  of  the  Smithsonian  Institution  of 
Washington  City,  accompanied  by  his  associate, 
Ezra  Cox,  proceeded,  candle  in  hand,  to  the  mod 
est  roof-chamber  that  held  the  life-work  of  Ste 
phen  Decatur  Simpkins,  naturalist. 

The  next  morning,  though  the  twins  appeared 
22 


338 

at  breakfast  in  their  fresh  white-ruched  dresses, 
and  Tom  sauntered  around  the  table  resplendent 
in  a  blue  neck-ribbon,  the  ends  of  which  hung  to 
his  knees,  a  distinct  depression  marked  the  spirit 
of  the  household. 

Despite  their  best  efforts  in  the  direction  of 
cheerfulness,  the  twins  were  haggard  and  wan. 

The  eyes  of  their  guests,  on  the  contrary, 
beamed  with  pleasure,  especially  those  of  the  oc 
cupants  of  the  upper  chamber. 

In  the  first  interval  of  silence  after  serving  the 
dishes,  Miss  Sarey  Mirandy,  turning  to  the  stran 
gers,  asked  timidly, 

"  May  I  ask,  sir,  what  perf  ession  you  gentlemen 
perfess  ?" 

"  Certainly,  madam,"  replied  John  Saunders,  his 
eye  twinkling  ;  "  the  three  at  your  left,  Messrs. 
Green,  Brown,  and  Black — men  of  color,  you  per 
ceive — are  members  of  the  National  Geological  Sur 
vey,  whom  Congress  has  sent  out  here  to  hunt  up 
some  mineral  specimens.  My  friend  here,  Mr.  Cox, 
and  I — my  name  is  Saunders — are  from  the  Smith 
sonian  Institution  at  Washington  City,  at  pres 
ent  loafers,  as  we  are  off  on  a  vacation.  We  are 
called  scientists,  I  believe.  Naturalists  is  a  name 
we  like  better  ;  but  really  " — he  hesitated  for  a 
moment  as  if  to  gain  entire  seriousness  —  "but 
really,  here,  in  the  presence  of  your  brother's 
beautiful  work,  we  should  appropriate  the  name 
timidly — with  heads  uncovered.  Is  this  collec 
tion  of  birds  known  in  the  State,  may  I  ask  ?" 


THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE  339 

"Well,  yas,  sir.  I  reckin  'tis.  'Tain't  never 
been  to  say  hid.  It's  been  right  here.  TV  ain't 
nobody,  black  nor  white,  in  the  county  but  knows 
they're  here." 

"It  is  not  registered.  I  know  of  all  the  im 
portant  recorded  collections  in  America.  I  won 
der  if  you  ladies  realize  what  a  treasure  you  pos 
sess.  My  friend  and  I  studied  it  until  our  candle 
burned  out.  Then  we  crept  down  and  begged 
those  of  our  friends  and  burned  them  up — besides 
one  we  found  in  the  dining-room.  I  hope  we 
didn't  disturb  you,  ladies  ?" 

The  sisters  exchanged  glances  and  colored. 

"  Th'  wasn't  to  say  'xactly  noise  enough  to  dis 
turb  nobody,  sir,  if  we'd  knew  what  it  was ;  but 
th'  ain't  nobody  slep'  up  in  Sonny's  room  sence  he 
passed  away  tell  now,  an'  the  sound  o'  every  foot 
fall  seemed  like  him  back  ag'in — so  we  naturally 
kep'  list'nin'  for  'em  to  stop ;  an',  to  tell  the 
whole  truth,  sir,  when  we  heard  'em  so  late,  not 
knowin'  nothin'  'bout  you  gentlemen,  we  got 
nervous  an'  scared  like,  'n'  we  got  up  an'  dressed 
an'  set  up  the  livelong  night,  'th  our  valu'bles 
all  in  reach — not  thet  you  gentlemen  look  like 
peddlers,  which  even  ef  you  was,  you  might  be 
hones'—" 

The  professional  gentlemen  present  thought  it 
unsafe  to  look  at  one  another,  while  they  expressed 
the  sincere  sorrow  they  felt  at  so  unfortunate  a 
contretemps. 

The  occasion  of  their  late  hours,  however,  soon 


340  THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE 

became  the  absorbing  theme,  resulting  in  a  full 
restoration  of  confidence. 

John  Saunders's  enthusiasm  was  genuine. 

"I  actually  counted  sixty-one  beautiful  speci 
mens  not  existing  in  any  registered  collection," 
he  said,  addressing  his  companions. 

"  An'  they  wasn't  all  easy  got,  neither,"  replied 
Miss  Sophia.  "  Why,  Sonny  slep'  in  a  crepe-myr 
tle-tree  ev'ry  night  for  a  week  once-t,  jest  to  find 
out  how  a  little  he-bird  conduct  hisself — if  he 
changed  places  with  his  settin'  wife,  or  jest  enter 
tained  'er  settin'  on  a  limb  beside  her." 

Her  interlocutor  smiled.  "  And  how  was  it,  do 
you  remember?" 

"  Well,  reely— how  was  it,  Sis  ?" 

"  'Deed,  sir,  I  disremember.  Either  he  did  'r 
he  didn't — one.  I  clean  forget,  but — but  it's  put 
down  in  the  book." 

"  So  there  is  a  book  ?" 

"  They's  five  leather  -  backed  books,  sir,  with 
nothin'  but  sech  as  that  in  'em.  Sis  an'  me  've 
read  in  'em  some,  an'  for  anybody  that  keered  for 
sech,  I  s'pose  it's  good  readin'.  They's  one  thing, 
it's  true,  an'  thet's  more  'n  you  can  say  fo'  the 
triflin'  novels  thet  folks  pizins  their  minds  an' 
principles  with." 

"  You  have,  indeed,  a  valuable  possession  here5 
ladies.  Have  you  ever  thought  of  selling  it  ?" 

"  Sellin'  Sonny's  birds  ?  No,  sir.  No  mo'  'n 
we'd  sell  pa  an'  ma's  'ile-painted  po'trits  or  Son 
ny's  Confed'rit  clo'es,  ragged  as  they  be.  No, 


THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE  341 

sir.  They's  some  things  thet  money  don't  tech. 
We  wouldn't  sell  them  birds,  not  ef  we  got  ten 
cents  a  head  for  'em— an'  that's  mo'  'n  most  of 
'em  'd  be  wuth,  even  if  they  was  baked  in  a  pie  'n' 
the  crust  an'  gravy  thro  wed  in." 

"  But,  my  dear  ladies,"  said  Mr.  Cox,  "  they 
are  worth  far  more  than  that.  As  a  collection 
they  are  worth  considerably  more  than  a  dollar 
apiece — " 

"  Sis,"  said  Miss  Sarey  Mirandy,  "  the  gentle 
man  don't  understand.  Them  birds,  sir,  ain't 
nothin'  but  feathers  an'  skin,  an'  it  full  o'  rank 
pizen  arsenic.  Th'  ain't  a  blessed  thing  in  'em 
but  raw  cotton,  an'  it  physicked,  an'  nine  out'n 
every  ten  of  'em  never  was  no  count  fo'  neither 
cookin'  nur  singin'.  We  wouldn't  deceive  you 
'bout  'em.  But  if  they  was  birds  o'  paradise 
caught  before  the  fall  o'  Adam,  jest  swooned 
away,  an'  li'ble  to  come  back  to  life  any  minute, 
'n'  you  offered  us  the  United  States  Mint  for  'em, 
even  so,  th'  ain't  fo'  sale — no  ways" 

This  was  somewhat  a  rebuff  to  the  first  over 
ture  of  the  Washington  scientist,  who,  indeed, 
seriously  meant  that  the  Institution  should  become 
possessed  of  the  new-found  treasure,  if  possible. 

He  had  inserted  the  edge  of  a  wedge,  however, 
and  was  satisfied  to  wait  before  pressing  it. 

Breakfast  over,  it  was  but  natural  that  Miss 
Sophia  should  follow  the  visitors  into  the  parlor, 
while  she,  with  evident  and  pathetic  pride,  exhib' 
ited  the  additional  species  there. 


342 

When  a  half-hour  later  she  rejoined  her  sister  in 
the  kitchen,  she  was  so  full  to  overflowing  of  this 
tender  theme  that  some  time  elapsed  before  she 
remarked,  in  a  tone  betraying  a  secondary  interest, 

"  Well,  I  reckin  Sally  Ann  '11  have  her  swing- 
in'  pitcher  after  all,  'cause  I've  done  sol'  the  can- 
delabras — " 

Miss  Sarey  stood  kneading  dough,  with  her 
back  to  her  sister.  She  came  near  falling  for  a 
moment. 

"  Wh — what  you  say,  honey  ?  H — who  bought 
— what  ?" 

She  kept  on  kneading  and  did  not  turn. 

"  That  slim,  light  -  complected  one,  I  say,  has 
done  bought  ol'  Mis'  Brooks's  candelabras,  'n'  I 
mus'  say,  I  never  sol'  a  thing  with  a  worse  grace. 
I'm  a-puttin'  the  ten  dollars  which  he  give  for 
'em  here  in  this  pink  vase  on  the  dinin'-room 
mantel  -  shelf,  an'  do  you  give  it  to  Sally  Ann, 
honey.  I  don't  want  nothin'  to  do  with  it,  nor 
with  her  neither.  She  gets  me  riled  enough  to 
all  but  back-slide  'th  her  'xtravagance  'n'  super- 
/?wousniss." 

Miss  Sarey  had  not  realized  until  now  how  at 
tached  she  had  herself  become  to  the  old  cande 
labra.  Their  shimmering  prisms  were  crystallized 
memories.  Themselves,  their  long-familiar  fan 
tastic  shapes,  were  friends,  antedating  in  associa 
tion  any  surviving  friendship. 

When  she  had  completed  her  task,  great  beads 
of  perspiration  stood  upon  her  pale  brow. 


343 

Passing  out,  she  nervously  seized  the  ten  dol 
lars  and  hastened  to  the  parlor.  The  purchaser 
stood  admiring  his  new  possession. 

Laying  the  money  before  him,  she  said,  with  a 
masterful  effort  at  composure, 

"Tbey's  been  a  mistake  made,  sir.  Them  can- 
delabras  is  already  sold." 

"  Indeed  ?  I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  bowing;  and  as 
she  moved  away,  he  added,  "I  should  be  glad  to 
give  five  times  the  price — if  they  could  be  se 
cured  !" 

Miss  Sarey  Mirandy  hesitated. 

"Sir?" 

There  was  something  almost  tragic  in  the  ap 
prehension  expressed  in  this  one  word. 

The  offer  was  repeated. 

Fifty  dollars  !  Half  her  secret  hoard  !  In  a 
twinkling  the  sum  resolved  itself  into  a  differ 
ence  in  the  quality  of  a  shroud  and  coffin.  With 
out  apparent  hesitation  she  replied  firmly, 

"The  lady  thet's  bought  'em  don't  ca'culate  to 
sell  'em,  thank  you,  sir."  And,  her  old  heart 
thumping  absurdly,  she  went  out. 

Declining  the  fifty  dollars  had  seemed  a  simple 
matter  of  decision  and  principle  at  the  moment, 
and  the  offer  a  bribe  to  her  loyalty  ;  but  all  day 
as  she  moved  about  the  house  her  secret  kept 
growing,  first  naturally,  from  the  germ,  as  the  ex 
travagance  seemed  to  grow  in  enormity,  and  then 
by  accretion,  as  one  by  one  the  sundry  deceptions 
it  would  involve  gathered  about  it. 


344  THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE 

Of  course  she  would  "deal  fair."  Sally  Ann 
should  have  the  fifty  dollars.  But  this  soon  be 
came  the  slightest  consideration. 

She  must  not  be  known  as  the  purchaser — not 
even  to  her  sister.  If  she  hadn't  told  her  of  that 
long-ago  kiss,  it  would  be  different.  Sally  Ann 
would  naturally  tell  every  one  the  price  she  got — 
and  she  would  ask  questions. 

Excepting  for  the  amount,  she  might  arrange 
it  so  that  Miss  Sophia  Falena  would  have  to  pay 
Sally  Ann,  when  she  could  honestly  say  that  she 
had  herself  sold  them  to  the  stranger.  But  the 
price ! 

Should  she  pay  Sally  Ann  herself,  and  even  say 
that  the  purchaser  wished  to  remain  incog.  ?  Miss 
Sophia  would  tell  the  whole  story  —  price  and 
all. 

Even  fancying  all  these  difficulties  passed, 
where  should  she  hide  the  things  ?  Her  sis 
ter,  "the  greatest  rummager  thet  ever  drawed 
breath,"  would  be  sure  to  come  across  them. 
How  would  she  ever  convey  them  from  the  par 
lor  for  temporary  concealment  in  the  top  of  her 
mahogany  wardrobe  ?  The  pendants  tinkled  like 
bells  if  they  were  moved. 

At  what  critical  moment  on  the  departure  of  the 
guests  would  she  dare  to  have  them  disappear? 

Miss  Sophia  would  be  sure  to  ask  searching 
questions.  She  had  already  "  wondered  how  the 
gentleman  was  goin'  to  tote  'em." 

Again — and  this  aggravated  her  mental  panic 


THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE  345 

— Sally  Ann  might  come  in  at  any  moment.  Miss 
Sophia  would  refer  to  the  sale,  and  all  would  be 
lost.  This  was  verily  the  most  trying  ordeal  in 
all  her  experience. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was  shame 
faced  and  afraid,  responding  even  to  her  sister's 
enthusiastic  remarks  about  Sonny  in  an  incoherent 
manner. 

In  the  midst  of  her  greatest  apprehension  the 
front  gate  was  heard  to  slam,  and  Sally  Ann 
Brooks  did  actually  appear,  coming  up  the  path. 

Seeing  her  enter,  however,  Miss  Sophia  said, 
"  Sis,  you  set  Sally  Ann  down  in  the  parlor  an'  talk 
to  her,  honey.  I'm  'feer'd  if  I'd  see  her  tickled 
over  that  ten  dollars  I  might  not  be  polite.  Maybe 
if  a  more  Christian  spirit  comes  to  me,  I'll  come 
in  after  whiles  ;  but  it's  mos'  supper-time,  any 
how." 

As  she  passed  through  the  parlor  to  receive 
Mrs.  Brooks,  Miss  Sarey  was  astounded  to  per 
ceive  the  "  red  -  complected  "  coveter  of  the  an 
tiques  still  standing  before  them. 

If  the  devious  ways  of  deceit  had  been  an  old- 
travelled  road  to  her,  her  dilemma  would  have 
been  less  trying. 

Not  to  introduce  those  who  chanced  to  meet  in 
her  parlor  would  be  a  social  dereliction  of  which 
she  was  incapable.  To  do  so  in  the  present  in 
stance  would  invite  disaster.  She  did  not  hesitate. 
Come  what  would,  she  would  be  a  lady  worthy 
the  name  of  Simpkins. 


346  THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE 

What  she  said  at  the  door  was, 

"  Walk  right  in  the  parlor,  Sally  Ann,  an'  I'll 
make  you  'quainted  with  a  gentleman  thet's  here 
from  the  North." 

"  Law,  Miss  Simpkins  !"  exclaimed  Teddy's 
wife,  shrinking  back,  "I  'ain't  got  on  no  corset 
nor  nothin'.  I  jest  run  over  in  my  Mother-Hub- 
bard  as  I  was.  I  wouldn't  go  before  a  strange 
gentleman  the  way  I  am,  nohow,  for  nothin'." 

One  crisis  was  safely  passed.  Trembling  with 
in,  and  with  two  solferino  spots  upon  her  thin 
cheeks,  Miss  Sarey  Mirandy  invited  Mrs.  Brooks 
into  her  own  room. 

"  We  hear  you've  got  a  hou&eful  o'  Yankees,'* 
said  the  guest,  taking  a  rocking-chair  ;  "  but  Mr. 
Jakes  says  they're  reel  nice,  an'  he  says  the  way 
they're  a-praisin'  up  Mr.  Sonny  Simpkins  roun' 
town  you'd  think  he  might  o'  been  George  Wash- 
in'ton,  or  maybe  Jeff  Davis  hisself." 

"  Yas,  Sally  Ann.  It's  been  mighty  gratifyin' 
to  Sis  an'  me  to  hear  them  as  knows  a-praisin' 
of  Sonny.  One  of  'em's  been  a-studyin'  over 
Sonny's  books  the  livelong  day." 

"  Is  that  so  ?  If  they  read  them  books  they  mus> 
shorely  be  educated.  Kitty  Clark's  beau  says  they 
been  a-telegraphtin'  all  day  to  Washin'ton— an' 
he  says  the  name  o'  Simpkins  has  gone  over  the 
wire  more  'n  once-t,  though  neither  he  nor  she 
nor  I  got  any  right  to  tell  it.  Three  of  'em, 
you  know,  's  been  out  to  Mr.  Jakes's  farm  all 
day,  a-spyin'  out  dug-up  things  with  a  spy-glass. 


THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE  347 

Mr.  Jakes  is  diggin'  a  new  cow -pond,  an'  they 
do  say  he's  dug  up  enough  to  undo  the  whole 
Bible.  That's  the  way  the  talk's  a-goin',  but  I'm 
thankful  to  say  I  was  raised  a  good  'Piscopal 
church-woman — not  sayin'  nothin'  'gainst  the  Bap 
tists,  Miss  Simpkins — an'  the  prayer-book  don't, 
in  no  place  I  ever  opened  it,  make  no  mention 
o'  Mr.  Jakes's  cow-pond,  nor  the  ins  an'  outs  of 
it.  An'  talkin'  'bout  the  Church,  Miss  Simpkins, 
fetches  me  to  what  brought  me  here,  not  that  I 
needed  any  excuse  ;  but  this  is  Lent,  you  know,  in 
our  church,  an'  we're  'xpected  to  make  some  sort 
o'  sacrerfice — if  not  fastin',  some  other — an'  I 
thought  'stid  o'  denyin'  myself  spring  onions  or 
maybe  choc'let,  since  Teddy's  mind  seems  to  run 
on  'em  consider'ble,  I'd  come  over  an'  get  them 
candelabras  o'  his  ma's,  an'  set  'em  back  on  the 
mantel  where  she  left  'em.  Don't  you  think  the 
Lord  might  take  that  the  way  it's  meant,  for  a 
Lenten  off'rin'  ?" 

"  I  do,  indeed,  Sally  Ann,  an'  a  good  one." 
And  she  added  in  a  moment,  "  'Cause  you  know, 
honey,  they  might  o'  sold  for  what  'd  fetch  con 
sider'ble  worldly  vanities." 

"  Yes  'm,  so  they  might,  tho'  I  doubt  if  th'  ever 
would." 

A  moment's  silence  followed,  broken  finally  by 
Miss  Sarey. 

"  But  I'd  advise  you,  Sally  Ann,  child,  to  ex 
amine  yore  deed  pretty  close-t,  before  you  offer 
it  to  the  dear  Lord,  'cause  you  know,  honey,  He 


348  THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE 

sees  the  inside  inness  o'  all  our  purposes.  Sup 
pose  somebody  now  was  to  offer  to  buy  them 
candelabras  V  pay  a  big  price,  cash  down.  How 
'bout  Lent,  honey  ?" 

The  old  lady's  heart  was  thumping  furiously. 

"Well,  Miss  Simpkins,  tell  the  truth,  they 
couldn't  get  'em— not  if  they  offered  me  the  first 
price  of  'em." 

Teddy  Brooks's  wife's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as 
she  continued, 

"Teddy  seems  right  porely  these  days,  Miss 
Simpkins  ;  an'  another  thing  I  come  to  ask  you 
was,  if  you  had  any  more  o'  that  blackberry  wine 
o'  yores  left.  It  helped  him  a  heap  las'  spring. 
Some  days  I  get  so  worreted  the  way  he  seems 
a-failin',  seem  like  if  he'd  get  good  V  strong,  I 
wouldn't  care  fo'  no  thin'  else." 

When  Miss  Sarey  went  for  the  wine,  she  moved 
with  the  alacrity  of  a  happier  and  younger  wom 
an  than  she  who  had  entered  the  room  ten  min 
utes  before.  While  she  had  the  opportunity,  she 
thought  it  but  safe  to  look  into  the  kitchen  in 
passing,  and  to  say, 

"  Sis,  I  don't  know  's  you'd  better  bother  comin' 
in.  I'll  make  yore  excuses  to  Sally  Ann." 

"  Well,  maybe  it's  jest  as  well,  though  I  was 
jest  untyin'  my  apron  to  go  in— guess  I'll  tighten 't 
up  ag'in  an'  pick  these  berries." 

For  the  first  time  in  years  Miss  Sarey  Mirandy 
kissed  Teddy's  wife  at  parting,  and  bade  her 
"keep  good  heart  an'  not  forgit  thet  the  good 


THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE  349 

Lord  loved  her  an'  hers."  And  as  she  turned  to 
go  in,  she  drew  a  long,  free  breath,  as  she  said 
to  herself,  "  An'  yet  some  folks  '11  set  up  an' 
say  th'  ain't  no  sech  a  thing  as  special  provi 
dence." 

It  was  quite  tea-time  now,  and  in  the  rush  of 
last  preparations  she  had  no  opportunity  for  con 
fidential  talk  with  her  sister  until  supper  was 
ready. 

She  stood  at  one  end  of  the  table,  bell  in  hand, 
while  her  sister  moved  about,  touching  here  and 
there,  preparatory  to  taking  her  station  at  the 
other  end. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think,  Sis  ?    Sally  Ann  has 
done  took  the  candelabras  home,"  she  said,  plung-  • 
ing  into  the  subject. 

Miss  Sophia  stared.  "  But  they're  bought  an' 
paid  for,  Sis— hun— an'  I  tol'  you  so— V  the  price 's 
in  the  vase." 

"  I've  done  give  the  money  back,  dearie,  an'  it's 
all  fixed.  D'  you  reckin'  I'd  let  a  little  foolishness 
like  that  stan'  in  the  way  o'  gettin'  Teddy's  ma's 
candelabras  back  to  'im— an'  he  porely,  too  ?" 

"  I  hope  you  dealt  fair,  honey.  Did  you  tell  'er 
they  was  sol'  ?" 

"  No,  but  I  ast  'er  if  she'd  take  a  offer,  V  she 
said  she  wouldn't  take  a  hundred  dollars  for  'em. 
I  reckin'  she's  consider'ble  worreted  about  Teddy. 
I  got  a  bottle  o'  wine  out  to  send  'im,  but  she  was 
so  loaded  up  with  the  candle-sticks,  she  said  she'd 
sen'  back  for  it.  I  reckin'  Sally  Ann  means  bet- 


850  THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE 

ter  'n  we  give  'er  credit  for.  She  looked  purty 
'nough  to  eat  to-night.  No  wonder  she  taken 
pore  Teddy's  eye." 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  they're  back.  What  did  you 
tell  the  gentleman  thet  bought  'em  ?" 

"I  tol'  'im  they  was  a'ready  disposed  of,  an 
thet  you  didn't  know  it — which  was  true." 

"  Mh — hm.  I  s'pose  it  was,  though  I'm  not  right 
shore.  I  trus'  neither  of  us  '11  ever  be  pushed  to 
say  nothin'  thet  won't  stand  in  the  Jedgment  fo' 
the  truth,  Sis.  Ring  the  bell,  honey.  An'  don't 
ferget  to  offer  secon'  cups  o'  tea.  Wait — yore 
placket-hole's  a-gappin' ;  lemme  pin  it.  That's 
it.  Kitty,  Kitty  !  Come  here,  Tom  !  I  declare, 
Tom  gets  his  neck-ribbon  awful  twisted.  Ring 
now,  Sis  !" 

The  entertaining  of  five  strange,  college-bred 
men,  who  talked  familiarly  of  things  beyond  their 
ken,  albeit  the  bird-theme  was  a  bond  of  sympa 
thy  between  them — was  a  somewhat  formidable 
undertaking  to  these  old,  timid  women  of  narrow 
and  hitherto  protected  lives,  though  they  had  con 
gratulated  themselves  many  times  to-day  that 
"  the  household  was  perpared  for  'em,  even  down 
to  Tom." 

When  supper  was  over  to-night  and  Mr.  Saun- 
ders,  with  a  formality  that  was  significant,  begged 
an  interview  with  the  ladies  in  the  parlor,  they 
were  seized  anew  with  a  vague  mistrust. 

These  Yankee  men,  who  wore  the  United  States 
initials  "promiscuous"  about  their  persons,  and 


THE    WOMAN^   EXCHANGE  351 

made  so  free  with  the  telegraph,  might  be — 
What  ?  Spies  ?  Detectives  ? 

Neither  confided  to  the  other  what,  in  truth, 
was  but  a  suspicion  of  a  suspicion,  as  they  repaired 
together  to  their  chambers  to  secure  their  turkey- 
tailed  fans  and  fresh  hemstitched  handkerchiefs, 
and  slip  bits  of  orris-root  into  their  mouths. 

The  gentlemen  were  already  assembled,  and  the 
meeting  lost  nothing,  but  rather  gained  in  for 
mality,  on  the  entrance  of  the  twins,  who,  bowing 
slightly,  proceeded  to  seat  themselves  side  by  side 
upon  the  sofa. 

"  Ladies,"  said  Mr.  Saunders,  rising,  "  yesterday 
a  party  of  tired  men  came  to  your  door,  asking 
for  supper  and  a  night's  lodging.  They  had  come 
from  a  distant  brilliant  city,  with  its  art-galleries, 
its  institutions  of  learning,  its  glare,  its  music. 
Coming  into  this  little  inland  Arkansas  town, 
they  expected  to  find  rich,  deep  forests  and  fertile 
fields,  tilled  by  true-hearted  children  of  the  soil. 
Within  your  hospitable  door  they  hoped  for  what 
Solomon  meant  when  he  said,  *  A  dry  morsel,  and 
quietness  therewith,'  as  they  were  both  hungry 
and  tired.  Instead  of  a  dry  morsel,  you  have 
given  us  sumptuous  fare,  ladies.  And  for  the 
quietness  we  sought,  we  have  found — what  shall 
I  say  ? — the  stillness  of  a  temple,  where,  instead 
of  sleeping,  we  have  since  sat  in  reverence.  Two 
of  us  have  spent  a  day  and  half  a  night  in  studying 
the  beautiful  life-work  of  Mr.  Stephen  Decatur 
Simpkins.  Here  we  have  found  science,  art,  lit- 


352  THE  WOMAN'S  EXCHANGE 

erature,  romance,  poetry,  music — for  the  birds  at 
our  windows  have  filled  the  night  with  melody. 

"There  are  in  the  world  but  two  larger  personal 
collections  of  birds  than  that  we  find  here.  There 
is  none  so  exquisitely  perfect  in  every  detail.  I 
have  not  found  a  gun-shot  in  a  single  specimen, 
gentlemen,  nor  a  ruffled  feather — " 

"  Th'  ain't  but  thirteen  shot  birds  there,"  inter 
rupted  Miss  Sarey  Mirandy,  "  an'  them  was  give 
to  Sonny.  He  spent  five  years  livin'  'mongst  'em 
so 's  they'd  know  'im,  before  he  ever  ketched  one. 
An'  then,  he  never  took  'em  in  nestin'  time,  less  'n 
he  got  both  the  he  and  the  she.  He  never  left  a 
mo'nin'  bird  in  his  life,  or  a  new -hatched  nest, 
Sonny  didn't." 

There  was  something  very  like  a  quaver  in  John 
Saunders's  voice  when  he  resumed  his  speech. 

"  All  the  valuable  known  collections,  ladies,  are 
on  exhibition  in  public  institutions.  As  its  repre 
sentative,  I  am  authorized  to  say  to  you  that  the 
United  States  Government  wishes  to  place  the 
work  of  Mr.  Simpkins  in  the  Smithsonian  Institu 
tion  at  Washington — " 

Simultaneously,  as  if  electrified,  the  twins  rose 
to  their  feet.  Miss  Sophia  first  found  voice. 
What  she  said,  in  a  quavering  tremor,  was  this : 

"  If  I  may  please  speak,  sir,  Sonny  lived  a  peace 
ful  an'  law-abidin'  citizen  clean  since  the  wah,  an' 
he  hedn't  no  more  hard  feelin's  to  them  he  fit  ag'in' 
'n  we've  got — not  a  bit.  If,  after  all  these  years, 
the  North  see  fit  to  converscate  his  pore  voiceless 


birds  thet  show  themselves  how  harmless  Sonny 
spent  his  time — not  havin'  even  to  say  a  shot  in 
'em — why,  all  we  got  to  ask  is,  jest  wait  a  few 
more  years  till  two  ol'  women  pass  away,  an'  then, 
why,  if  the  North  cares  for  'em,  they'll  be  nobody 
lef '  to  claim  'em." 

As  she  sat  down,  her  sister  spoke. 
"  Them  words  we  let  fall  to  you  Northerners 
'bout  Sonny's  Confedrit  uniform  wasn't  intended 
fo'  no  insult  to  you  gentlemen.  We  jest  prize  it, 
bein'  his  sisters,  'cause  seem  like  it's  got  all  his 
young  shape  in  it  yet — thet's  all.  Th'  ain't  a  liv- 
in'  bit  o'  strife  mixed  in  our  feelin's  'bout  it — not 
a  bit.  Thet's  all  we  got  to  say,  I  reckin' — ain't 
it,  Sis  ?" 

John  Saunders  was  not  the  only  man  present 
who  found  it  necessary  to  use  his  handkerchief 
before  he  could  trust  his  voice  again.  There  was 
a  very  tender  note  in  it  when  he  said, 

"I  have  blundered  shamefully,  my  dear  ladies, 
and  I  beg  you  to  forgive  me.  Your  brother's 
property  is  yours.  No  power  on  earth  can  take 
it  from  you.  The  war  and  confiscation  are  no 
more.  Were  Mr.  Simpkins  living,  he  could  desire 
no  greater  honor  than  national  recognition  as  one 
of  America's  first  naturalists.  This  is  what  we 
would  accord  him  now.  His  work  lies  buried  in 
this  little  town.  In  the  National  Museum  thou 
sands  will  visit  it  daily.  His  portrait  will  hang 
beside  it,  and  his  poetic  and  exhaustive  treatises 
adorn  the  public  libraries.  These  books  alone. 
23 


354 

describing  numerous  hitherto  unclassified  species, 
and  giving  original  methods  of  capture  and  pres 
ervation,  are  worth  several  thousand  dollars.  I 
am  not  yet  authorized  to  offer  a  specified  sum. 
We  cannot  always  pay  as  we  should  like  to,  but 
I  can  guarantee  that  to  the  estate  of  Mr.  Stephen 
Decatur  Simpkins  the  United  States  will  pay  cer 
tainly  not  less  than  ten  thousand  dollars  for  the 
collection  entire  —  it  ought  to  be  double  that. 
We  feel  quite  sure  that  when  you  ladies  fully  un 
derstand,  you  will  not  let  any  feeling  stand  in  the 
way  of  his  getting  his  full  honors." 

For  answer,  the  sisters  turned  to  each  other, 
opened  their  arms,  and  fell  sobbing  each  upon  the 
other's  shoulder.  Thus  they  sat  for  some  mo 
ments,  and  when  they  raised  their  heads  they 
were  alone. 

"  I  hope,"  said  Miss  Sophia,  wiping  her  eyes, "  I 
hope  pa  an'  ma  's  been  a-lookin'  on  an'  a  list'nin', 
Sis.  'Twould  make  'em  happier,  even  in  Heaven." 

"  Yas — an'  Sonny  too,  dearie.  I  hope  he's  been 
present — though  I  doubt  if  he'd  keer  so  much.  I 
b'lieve  he'd  enjoyed  more  bein'  up-stairs  las'  night, 
a-studyin'  the  birds  with  them  gentlemen." 

"  I  reckin  you're  right,  Sis,  an'  maybe  he  was. 
I  don't  b'lieve  the  good  Lord  'd  hinder  'im  if  he 
wanted  to  come." 


If  some  supposed  the  fortune  coming  to  the 
Misses  Simpkins  would  prove  a  death-blow  to  the 


355 

Exchange,  they  were  mistaken.  A  comfortable 
income  gave  its  machinery  just  the  lubrication  it 
needed  for  smooth  and  happy  working  according 
to  the  pleasure  of  its  proprietors. 

Three  years  have  passed  since  Sonny's  collection 
of  birds  went  to  Washington,  and  every  spring 
the  sisters  plan  to  go  north  to  visit  it  at  the  Insti 
tution;  but  each  season  finds  Teddy  Brooks  "  look- 
in'  so  porely,"  that  Miss  Sarey  Mirandy  finds  an 
excuse  to  put  it  off.  When  pressed,  she  did  even 
say  once  to  her  sister, 

"  Though  Sally  Ann  is  growin'  in  grace  ev'ry 
day,  an'  '11  make  a  fine  woman  in  time  if  she  lives, 
you  can't  put  a  ol'  head  on  young  shoulders — an* 
like  as  not  before  we'd  be  half  way  to  Washin'- 
ton,  she'd  run  out  o'  light-bread  an'  feed  Teddy  on 
hoe-cake,  which  always  was  same  as  pizen  to  'im, 
even  in  his  young  daye." 


"OH,  SHOUTIN'S   MIGHTY  SWEET" 


"OH,  SHOUTIN'S    MIGHTY    SWEET" 

PLANTATION  PARTING  HYMN 


o1 


(H,  shoutin's  mighty  sweet 

When  yer  shout  when  yer  meet, 
An'  shek  han's  roun',  an'  say  : 
"  Bless  Gord  fur  de  meetin' ! 
Bless  Gord  fur  de  greetin' !" 
Shoutin'  comes  mighty  easy  dat  a- way. 

But  ter  shout  when  yer  part, 
An'  ter  shout  Pom  yo'  heart, 

When  yer  gwine  far  away,  far  away, 
Wid-a  lettin'  go  han's, 
An'  a-facin'  strange  lan's — 

Shoutin'  comes  mighty  hard  sech  a  day. 

"  Glory"  sticks  in  yo'  th'oat 

At  de  whistle  o'  de  boat, 
Dat  cuts  lak  a  knife  thoo  yo'  heart ; 

An'  "Hallelujah"  breaks 

At  de  raisin'  o'  de  stakes 
Dat  loosens  up  de  ropes  ter  let  'er  start. 


360          "  OH,  SHOUTIN'S  MIGHTY  SWEET  " 

But  ef  yer  fix  yo'  eye 

On  de  writin'  in  de  sky, 
Whar  de  "  good-byes  "  is  all  strucken  out, 

An'  read  de  prormus  clair 

Of  another  geth'rin'  there, 
You  kin  say  far'well,  my  brothers,  with  a  shout. 

Den  shout,  brothers,  shout  I 

Oh,  tell  yo'  vict'ry  out, 
How  neither  death  nur  partin*  kin  undo  yer. 

Look  fust  at  yo'  loss, 

But  last  at  de  cross, 
Singin'  glory,  glory,  glory  hallelujah  ! 


LUCINDY 


LUCINDY 

WHEN  Lucindy's  eye  do  shine 
Lak  a  ripe,  ripe  muscadine, 
An'  'er  lips  sticks  out 
In  a  tantalizin'  pout, 
I  counts  Lucindy  mine. 

When  she  droop  'er  eyes  so  shy, 
Lak  she  gwine  ter  pass  me  by, 

An'  des  afore  she  pass 

Drap  'er  hankcher  on  de  grass, 
My  courage  rise  up  high. 


864 


LU  CINDY 


When  she  sets  up  in  de  choir, 

An'  'er  voice  mounts  higher  an'  higher, 

In  unisom  wid  Jim's, 

A-singin'  o'  de  hymns, 
I  sets  back  an'  puspire. 


When  she  lean  down  on  'er  hoe, 
'N'  dig  de  san'  up  wid  'er  toe, 
An'  look  todes  me  an'  sigh, 
Des  lak  she  'mos'  could  cry, 
I  don't  know  whar  ter  go. 


ITJCINDY 

When  she  walk  right  down  de  aisle 
At  de  cake-walk  wid  a  smile, 
An'  she  an'  yaller  Jake 
Ketch  han's  an'  win  de  cake, 
I  steam  an'  sizz  an'  bile. 


When  she  claim  me  fur  her  beau, 
An'  den  dance  de  reel  wid  Joe  ; 
An'  when  she  swing  me  by, 
Squeeze  my  han'  on  de  sly — 
I  don'  know  whe'r  or  no. 


LUCINDY 

Tell  de  trufe,  Lucindy's  ways 
Gits  me  so  upsot  some  days 
Dat,  'cep'n  dat  I  knew 
Dat's  des  de  way  she  do, 
I'd  do  some  damage,  'caze 

Some  days  when  she  do  de  wus5, 
Ef  'twarn't  dat  I  hates  a  fuss, 
An'  loves  'er  thoo  an'  thoo 
Wid  all  de  ways  she  do, 
De  least  I'd  do'd  be  cuss. 


THE   END 


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